


The Contract

by Jersey



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amputation, Blackmail, Forced Prostitution, Gen, Mutilation, Prison, Psychological Torture, Rape, Solitary Confinement, Starvation, Torture, attempted suicide, blind, crippling, incarceration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-19 07:39:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2380262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jersey/pseuds/Jersey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the rooftop, Sherlock faces an impossible decision; concede to Moriarty or watch his friends die. Sherlock does, surrending to the police and the judicial system, only to find that Moriarty owns the prison and all the guards. Moriarty tortures Sherlock slowly over the years, savoring his final victory while Sherlock suffers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Contract

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Contract](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/76028) by DIY Sheep. 



**THE CONTRACT**

An icy chill slices through Sherlock Holmes like a scalpel, right down to the core. He wants to believe it is merely derived from cold, sharp winds cutting across the rooftop of St. Bart’s. He wants desperately to believe that, but, now that Sherlock is so acutely aware of the professional snipers and assassins poised so perfectly aimed at his few – friends, colleagues, family, what? – the man knows it is not the cool of fall that has him shivering beneath his coat. No, Sherlock shudders from the painful, crippling, agonizing realization that, for once in his storied life, he has been beaten in every way that matters.

“I would kill you, but that would be ever so ordinary, which, as we have already established, would be completely against my style,” Jim croons, his words laced with venom as he strolls the roof in languid circles, closing in on Sherlock as a vulture circling a fallen animal.

Sherlock swallows, his muscles working against the painful, uncomfortable lump forming in his throat; he trembles but forces the words out anyway, if only to maintain some semblance of composure. “And we all know how important style is to you.”

Jim cocks his head to the side and smiles, a crooked, toothy thing that reminds Sherlock vaguely of chimpanzees posturing aggressively. “Occupational hazard of being the world’s foremost criminal mastermind, I suppose.”

“What…” Sherlock pauses, struggling to collect himself once more and trying desperately not to consider the potential damage his words could herald if not carefully put. “What will you do to them?”

Jim purses his lips together in mockery, shrugging sarcastically. “Well, that depends entirely on you.” Jim practically prances to the edge of the building, peering over it with near diabolic glee at the street below before sobering pointedly. “I did promise you a fall, Sherlock.”

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

John Watson cannot believe his eyes or ears. He sits in the gallery, watching in transfixed horror as the judge requests a plea from Sherlock to the many charges laid against him and his friend glances at him, looks back to the judge, and mutters only a reply of “guilty.” Were it not for Lestrade’s heavy hand gripping his arm almost painfully tight, the once soldier would leap from his chair and argue. Instead, the sharp crush of the soon-to-be-former detective inspector’s fingers digging into his forearm is enough to ground John, focus him.

While the court officers affix gleaming silver cuffs about Sherlock’s tiny wrists, John cannot help but feel an overwhelming sense of wrongness to everything. Everything about this has been wrong, right down to the very moment that Sherlock turned himself in to Lestrade even after their nighttime flight from the police and everything the man had gone through attempting to hunt down Moriarty and clear his own name. Sherlock never admitted fault in his life; why would he start now? It all screams, but John cannot discern what.

Yet, here they stand, with Sherlock being led away in shackles, having plead guilty to everything from conspiracy to murder.

John shakes with unspoken rage at it all.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

No matter how it pains her, Irene Adler cannot risk attending the trial of Sherlock Holmes. She wishes to be there, desperately so. Sherlock is the only man to have bested her, the only person who can think circles around her, and the only one in the world to truly both intrigue and arouse her. She still finds him the most beautiful creature she has ever set eyes upon – male or female – with his sharp, elegant cheekbones and distinguished features as though carved from perfectly pale marble by the hands of a master renaissance sculptor.

Irene hates this, watching him suffer so stoically from the relative safety of streaming video from her phone. Sherlock Holmes is no criminal, not by a longshot. No, he and his friend, Dr. Watson, are gentlemen, a rare find in these trying days. Irene should know granted her rather unique profession. While Sherlock might be quite capable both mentally and physically for any of a wide variety of criminal acts, he is bound by his silly morals, his honor, and his soft heart. She can tell.

Even if Irene could not tell, she knows better. All of the crimes, all of the despicable things they have charged him with, she knows it is Moriarty who did it. However, her phone and any of the evidence to the existence of the man lies in the hands of Mycroft Holmes – who seems dead set on not lifting a finger to assist his brother.

Irene cannot take the risk of returning to England, not after what Sherlock did for her.

xxx

xxxxx 

xxx

_“Just think of how close you came.”_

That is what Molly Hooper’s mother says again and again. Her mother has always been something of a worrier, but Sherlock’s trial has thrown her into near fits. The woman paces and constantly queries what sort of horrors might have befallen her poor baby at the hands of the monster that is Sherlock Holmes.

The first day Molly spends of her vacation hiding at her mother’s house from the realities of the trial, the mortician delicately defends the man. The second day, Molly politely ignores her mother’s worries. By the third day, her mother’s concern has swollen to an uncomfortable, overwhelming weight upon Molly that she cannot aptly stand by. She packs her travel bag, apologizes, offers a paltry excuse, and hops on the train back to London.

As she sits, watching the countryside slide by, Molly sighs to herself. Her mother simply does not understand; Molly imagines most of London does not understand. Sherlock Holmes could never hurt anyone, never orchestrate all the crimes for which he has been indicted. His morals stand too high to allow for such folly. For all her advances, Sherlock’s only affections have always been reserved for his work, the honesty and the pureness of it. She knows he would never, could never abandon that so carelessly.

When she finally arrives in London, Molly does not even go home straight away. First, she goes to St. Barts. There is no sense in remaining home on vacation when she cannot relax at all, cannot do anything but think of Sherlock. She speaks briefly with her supervisor, and, afterwards, on a whim, Molly visits the morgue. It is empty and suddenly so devoid of life without the risk of Sherlock bursting in at any moment to whip a corpse or pace about a body in contemplation.

While there, she spots a curious thing in the corner and smiles. On one of the distant, steel tables rests a series of Petri dishes, each labeled in Sherlock’s hand. Molly briefly racks her brain before recalling his last visit to Barts had involved something about post mortem sputum cultures. Before anyone can disrupt the samples, and before she is even aware of her own actions, Molly changes the labels so that they read “M. HOOPER” in her tidy print.

Molly steps back and lets out a breath. If Sherlock knew she had touched his things, Molly would suffer a severe tongue lashing. However, she knows that if she does not claim this, his experiment will be lost forever. It is the only lasting thing of Sherlock in her world.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

When the sentencing comes down, John cannot bring himself to attend the hearing, nor can he afford the time off from the clinic. Lestrade can and does. He has been on administrative leave since Sherlock turned himself in pending an inquiry from Internal Affairs that should prove to be rather lengthy considering the dozens of cases during which Lestrade sought the consulting detective’s assistance. As such, Lestrade has plenty of time of his hands to waste at a sentencing.

It is a _waste_ , in Lestrade’s all too humble opinion. He has seen Sherlock work; he knows Sherlock’s methods. Hell, he is the one who picked Sherlock up off the street and got him relatively clean after the first case the Holmes insisted upon consulting upon. As such, Gregory Lestrade knows Sherlock Holmes better than most, likely better than his own brother. Lestrade _knows_ Sherlock is innocent of all counts, just as much as he knows the stubborn arse of a man could defend himself and prove his own innocence in likely under an hour if Sherlock would only bring himself to do so. Instead, Sherlock has eerily and quietly accepted this fate, doing nothing to prevent it or stave it off otherwise.

Worse, because of Sherlock, now Lestrade’s fate hangs in the balance. Sherlock’s guilty plea has cast an ill-eye upon every case they shared, no matter how clear the evidence against the previously convicted. A slew of appeals have already been filed, along with civil suits against the Met and against Lestrade personally. His career is in shambles at best as a result of all this. He’ll be lucky to have a job in the mailroom after the fallout.

No, Lestrade has to correct himself as the sentences for each crime add up beyond a man’s natural life expectancy. Sherlock is the lucky one. The many counts against him dredged up from the years would have put him up for the death penalty in most countries, but the UK has been without capital punishment since its abolishment in 1965. Sherlock will not die, but he will spend the rest of his life in prison.

Lestrade wonders, later that day, when he slumps down at the quaint kitchen nook in Mrs. Hudson’s flat nursing a sickly sweet cordial with the bitty old bird, who is burdened with the worse fate.

xxx 

xxxxx 

xxx

Sherlock does as he is instructed, mechanically dancing to Moriarty’s tune, all the while feeling a deepening well in the pit of his stomach. His trial – or lack thereof – is a farce. Any idiot worth his weight could see the folly in it, the lack of conclusive evidence against him, and the complete aberrance of his behavior. Any utter moron should see the orchestration behind this, the madness to Moriarty’s damnation of him. But none do. Not even John or Lestrade balks, the only two _normal_ men in the world with their limited observational and interpretive skills who could ever possibly claim to know Sherlock.

His own brother even fails to come to his aid. Then again, Sherlock had not anticipated Mycroft lifting a finger for him. Their relationship has been most aptly described as strained at best, but that is not cause for Sherlock’s surety that Mycroft will not help him. No. Mycroft cannot bring himself to meddle in the affairs of the average citizens for fear of stirring the metaphoric pot that is the United Kingdom too overtly and alerting the numb, mindless herd of driveling sheep acting as elected officials of the careful orchestra played unseen, unheard, unnoticed about them. Were Mycroft to give any assistance, no matter how small, it would bring light to the man’s considerable influence and power, a thing that the elder Holmes has striven for the entirety of his adult life to avoid.

Sherlock takes what has become a predictable failure of the people around him in notable stride, accepting an absolutely ludicrous sum of years as his sentence without complaint. If this will appease Moriarty and draw the assassins from the friends which have failed him, then Sherlock is happy to be off to jail. He knows he cannot be in the general population granted he put many of those men in jail, so Sherlock need not worry about any violence against him. He only has to worry about how to pass the time without going utterly mad.

Sherlock reassures himself of this again and again as he is processed into one of England’s many boring, bland prisons. He reminds himself of this as he is fingerprinted once more for the records before cataloging once more the patterns of his own impression. He forcibly hammers a carved sign of this mantra at the entrance of his mind palace as he strips off every scrap of his own clothes, accepts his uniform, and dresses in the bland, overly starched, rust-orange scrubs and white under garments that will be his wardrobe for the rest of his life.

He swiftly schools his emotions before lovingly folding the smartly tailored jacket, shirt, and pants that had been his wardrobe for the sentencing, the clothes that had been so staple to him through his life. Sherlock pauses then, smoothing down a wrinkle on his jacket. He sighs, heavily. Sentimentality kills, the once consulting detective knows. He also knows that, once Sherlock turns over his things, they will bag his personal effects and stow them away in a cardboard box with his name on it for his release, but it is exceedingly unlikely Sherlock will ever wear such trappings of his former life ever again. With a heavy heart, Sherlock hands over his clothes and braces himself for his new life.

As per his unique situation, when Sherlock is escorted from intake in his orange uniform and complex shackles, he is taken not to a cell in the general population, but to a side wing. Something prickles uncomfortably at the back of his neck. Sherlock tries to ignore it, forcing the sensation down as he is taken deeper and deeper into the prison and further from the general population.

When he can no longer hear any of the usual prison sounds, Sherlock knows something is amiss. He freezes mid stride and glances over his shoulders at the guards behind him. They purposely pay him no attention, but there is something forced to their expression. There lies too much tension in the muscles along the jaw line and about their eyes.

_‘Of course,’_ he muses to himself ruefully. ‘ _Could never be as simple as incarceration. It would go against his_ style. _’_

Sure enough, when Sherlock is finally escorted to what seems to be his private cell, located down a long, vacant and lonely wing, Moriarty awaits. He stands in the center of a small, cramped, bare cell, furnished only with a tiny, squat, steel toilet in the corner. Against the stark emptiness of the space, Moriarty is the epitome of richness, in another of his perfectly pressed Vivienne Westwood impeccably bespoke suits in midnight blue. Sherlock glares as Moriarty grins smugly and as the guards remove his ankle and waist shackles, leaving the handcuffs.

Moriarty gestures to the men. They work swiftly, efficiently and dispassionately to rip the prison uniform from Sherlock’s slender frame, leaving the prisoner in only his newly issued boxers and the handcuffs. Sherlock says nothing; this is a standard intimidation technique torn right from the pages of interrogation training manuals. Nudity – or anything thereabouts – places him in a more socially and physically vulnerable position than the guards or Moriarty.

When the guards step back from the cell and close the heavy steel door behind them does Sherlock dare speak. “Come to gloat over your victory?”

“No, no,” Jim sings, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, clearly savoring every moment of this. “You still haven’t figured it out, have you?” He smiles impossibly wider. “Precisely as ordinary as I thought you were.”

Sherlock narrows his gaze. It is a measured expression. In most individuals it would suggest threatening and calculating. In the overwhelming majority of Sherlock’s experiences, this has worked. However, neither man is foolish enough to believe that, and both know this is a practiced response. It is a gambit to bide time in hopes that Moriarty will fill in the information in his pride.

When that fails to properly rouse Moriarty, Sherlock dares demand, “You won. Disgraced. Imprisoned. Abandoned. Trapped safely behind bars where I cannot possibly impede any of your petty schemes. What more could you possibly want from me?”

Moriarty preens, enjoying this far too much to be healthy, drawing close enough to Sherlock that his aftershave absolutely invades the convict’s senses in the stark absence of any other sensory input. “I told you, I would burn the heart right out of you.” Sherlock tenses, but Moriarty merely smirks. “I always keep my promises, and I _always_ collect what I am owed.”

Sherlock sighs once more, drained by the events of the last few weeks culminating in this moment. “You’ve taken everything from me that I care about. What more is there left?”

“Your pride, your soul.” Moriarty folds his arms across his chest. “It’s still there. You’re hiding it rather nicely, but not well enough. When I’m through with you, there’ll be nothing left. Not an ounce. You’ll beg me to end your miserable existence when I’m done.”

“I won’t.”

Moriarty chuckles to himself. “Oh, I think you will.” He reaches into his jacket and plucks three folded pieces of paper from the breast pocket. “With proper incentive, of course.”

To Sherlock’s very great horror, Moriarty unfolds and tapes to the wall three printed photographs. The first is of Lestrade, seated at his desk at home, a glass of scotch in one hand and a battered copy of a murder-mystery pulp in the other, taken from what must be the fire escape judging by the lace cloth in the corner – his wife’s taste, not Lestrade’s. The second depicts Mrs. Hudson, sitting in her kitchen, holding a tissue to her lips with one hand and clutching a newspaper article about his conviction in the other – taken in the hall behind her. The final shows John, sleeping on a couch in an unfamiliar apartment, his mouth hanging slightly agape and a bit of spittle glistening on his lip, taken within feet of him as he slumbers unaware.

Sherlock is not even aware of whatever cue he has given to Moriarty, but the man’s grin widens further. “See, I knew you’d comply.”

Sherlock blinks slow, composing himself. “What do you want?”

“Only your continued compliance.” Moriarty knocks on the door and reaches out briefly to be handed a simple hammer. “Put your hands on the floor.”

“No.”

Moriarty frowns, pursing his lips overly dramatically as a child might before swinging the hammer towards the freshly posted pictures. “Well, if you want to see your only friends tortured in your stead, I’m willing to entertain that notion.”

Sherlock does not move again. His fingers have been his life, and he knows Moriarty intends to destroy those long, lithe digits. They have plucked evidence from the tiniest of nooks, precisely cleaved dissections into the finest of samples, and lovingly worked the strings of his violin. In truth, Sherlock has held out the vague hope of eventually being allowed to engage in some sort of music therapy as a part of his incarceration pending good behavior – if he can manage. To bend to Moriarty now is to cast all that aside.

He taps the hammer coyly against his chin. “Perhaps your sweet, little granny first?”

Before he can even fathom what he is doing, Sherlock’s body moves of its own accord. He drops down, placing his palms lightly against the chilled time floor. When Moriarty does not even so much as twitch, Sherlock proceeds to kneel down, planting his hands firmly down. The hairs prickle at the back of his neck in anticipation of the horror he knows must surely follow this act of submission, of obeisance to a mad man.

Moriarty crouches beside him and strokes Sherlock’s curled locks, singing sickly sweetly in the convict’s ear. “See, now wasn’t that easy?”

Sherlock does not answer, merely grits his teeth and waits for the hammer to come swinging down on his exposed knuckles with a tremendous crash. He clenches his jaw to keep from screaming. He will not give Jim Moriarty the satisfaction of his cries, but it hurts worse than Sherlock can imagine to both be struck by the hammer and to resist the urge to curl up protectively over his battered fingers before the next blow drops. The madman repeatedly smashes the fingers on both of Sherlock’s hands until something cracks in both, heralding fractures.

Only when Sherlock’s hands are soundly abused does Moriarty seem satisfied. He stands while Sherlock crumples up about his mangled paws, drawing them close to his chest. The criminal mastermind smooths his now rumpled Westwood and tie.

He leans close to Sherlock and whispers almost lovingly, “Until next time.”

Sherlock shudders at both the agony in his hands and the many implications of Moriarty’s words; this is only the beginning of a very long sentence.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

The first week that Sherlock is prison is perhaps the hardest on John Watson. He spends that week camping out on couches and guest beds of the few friends and colleagues who will still associate with him. He cannot bring himself to go back to an empty Baker St. flat after everything that has happened until it dawns upon John that he must move on and return to his normal, boring, bland life of clinic work. This sentiment is only cemented in the doctor when his repeated inquiries of visitation are met by refusals on Sherlock’s part.

John returns to Baker St. on the Friday following Sherlock’s sentencing to box up his few things and bid Mrs. Hudson a fond farewell. She cries, softly, as a mother might, upon spying John at the door. She hugs him and holds him tenderly, never feeling more fragile in the all the time he has known her. John murmurs sweet greetings, the same offerings he might have voiced to his own mother, were she alive.

When John finally settles his gaze upon her, his wistful smile turns to a scowl. Her eyes are red and flushed, swollen even. The elderly woman has been crying for some time this day before John’s arrival. He does not need to be the great Sherlock Holmes to know.

“Mrs. Hudson, what’s happened?” he asks firmly but kindly.

She flusters, waving an embroidered kerchief in her face in an ill conceived attempt to conceal her sorrow. “Oh, John, it’s awful, just awful.”

A thud from the upstairs flat has the skittish woman jumping in fright. Without a word, John sits her down at her own table before tiptoeing up the steps to the flat. His heart hammers in his chest, but, when John crosses the threshold, it is Mycroft he finds, not some sneak thief. The elder Holmes is moving through the flat, collecting Sherlock’s things in a curious sort of absence, without any particular plan, before tucking them into cardboard boxes.

The doctor clears his throat, and Mycroft turns slowly to him. “John. I didn’t hear you come in.”

John may never be as observant or as intelligent as either Holmes brother, but he is certainly clever enough to know that it is entirely out of Mycroft’s nature to be so unaware of his surroundings. Both Holmes could hardly be described as empathetic, but that did not mean that the two did not care for one another in their own way. This has hit Mycroft in a way John cannot possibly fathom.

“I… uh… just came to pack up my things,” John stammers, his mouth suddenly drier than the Gobi.

Mycroft nods. “Naturally.” He sets down the books upon the desk. “Might I offer any assistance?”

John shakes his head. “No. I think I can manage.”

Mycroft smiles, but John can spy the force behind it. “I am to assume you have found suitable lodgings?”

John shrugs. “I have some leads out.”

One of the other doctors from the clinic has been searching for a flat mate for the better part of three months. Dr. Rahlston. According to the few others who have tried to share with Rahlston, the man snores miserably and owns a cat from hell that elects to piss on anything within range and enjoys shredding both fine furniture and hanging garments. John supposes beggars cannot be choosers, and Rahlston’s increasing desperation for a flat share will put John in a better negotiating position. The other doctor will be hard pressed to deny John, even with the rumors circulating about him in the wake of Sherlock’s jailing. Until then, he will be spending yet another night relying upon the kindness of strangers.

“That’s good. I’m glad for you,” Mycroft responds, looking to the skull on the mantle. “Very glad.”

John bites his tongue; he knows this is as much as the elder Holmes can offer in the way of sentiment, the most he can muster in apology. The doctor offers a few, flat words before setting to the task at hand. John gathers the meager possessions of his to have survived this long in the flat, stuffing them into a few duffles. It does not take long, and, when he finishes, Mycroft is still puttering about the flat in his eerie, unfocused way.

John finds Mycroft in the lounge, setting Sherlock’s violin case into a box; he calls to him politely, “Well, guess I’ll be out, then.”

Mycroft rises and shakes John’s hand with surprising warmth. “Thank you, John. For everything you have done for my brother.”

John blinks. “I didn’t do anything.”

Mycroft shrugs. “We never know the weight of our actions until far beyond them.” He looks down and hands John the box with the violin. “Please.”

John cannot bring himself to refuse, and instead struggles his many bags and the parcel on the way to his next Samaritan shelter. The next morning, he rings Rahlston and agrees to a flat share. He moves that afternoon into a cramped flat with two bedrooms separated by an infuriatingly tiny common space that is indeed occupied by a horrible beast of a cat. He stuffs the box from Mycroft in the bottom of the closet and buries it as though he could bury that part of his life. It is a terrible flat, but it is still miles better than Baker St. alone.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx 

Sherlock languishes in his cell for the first week alone.

He struggles daily with his ruined hands. Each subtle manipulation of his fingers sends fresh waves of agony through the once detective. The guards do not provide Sherlock with any sort of medical care or supply, nor is there anything in his cell to bind the fingers if Sherlock even had the dexterity to wrap them himself. The only things Sherlock is offered are meager cups of water twice a day and scraps of breakfast in the morning that leave his stomach churning and growling for hours. They do not even give him clean clothes, leaving Sherlock to sit in his prison issued boxers, which are slowly soiled and stained despite his care relieving himself.

Yet none of that compares to what must be the worst torture of this; the complete and utter lack of mental stimulation. It tears at Sherlock’s mind, ripping his consciousness asunder. He knows this will kill him, this uselessness, this lack of life.

Sherlock considers the pictures frequently, deducing from them what he can. He scours the pictures for long periods, plucking out obscure details wherever possible. However, as the deductions mean nothing and serve no legitimate purpose, these moments of genius flee Sherlock as soon as they are grasped. It unnerves him, but the once great detective continues to try day after day. When the desperation to retain anything grows too much, he paces wide circles, careful to step lightly to minimize the shock on his shattered fingers, until Sherlock can stomach another attempt at discerning anything truly meaningful from the photographs.

On the last day of the week, Moriarty returns with a pry-bar. When he leaves, Sherlock lies curled up on the ground, trying not to hug bruised and what are likely broken ribs with his mangled fingers. He cuddles up on the floor against an agony so pure, so white-hot that Sherlock has no words for it. He can only gasp against the pain and struggle to pull each breath into his lungs.

Sherlock stares at the pictures on the wall of his friends and knows it is worth every blow, every wound, even if they will never know.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

The inquiry stretches on for almost four months. Lestrade bides his time as best he can while his marriage crumbles yet again around him. He tries to tend to the home and be the best husband he can be, but Lestrade can see the betrayal written so plainly in her features between the tightness of her lips and her words. She loathes him, sees him as nothing more than a criminal.

Lestrade holds this tight in him until a night of weakness when he rings John. They meet at a local dive for a few drinks. Lestrade confesses this when the night has gone on too long and the liquor has made him maudlin. John says nothing, and, for this, Lestrade is immensely grateful. The detective inspector knows there is nothing John _can_ say to amend this failing in his life.

When Greg’s tongue loosens too much for comfort in such a public setting, John hails a cab and escorts an exceedingly inebriated Lestrade back home. It is the most he can do. Greg sprawls in the cab and lulls with each turn. John prays Lestrade does not vomit all over the cab and ponders what the fee might be for such a display.

Midway through the journey, a pained whisper escapes his lips. “God, I miss the bastard.”

John says nothing once more. When they reach Lestrade’s flat, he helps the drunk from the taxi and pays the cabby. The doctor half-carries and half-drags the detective to his own couch and apologizes to Lestrade’s wife as she drapes a blanket over her barely conscious husband. Greg will bear only watery memories of these instances in the morning.

Around mid morning the next day, an extremely hungover Lestrade is unsurprised to wake up on the couch to his wife handing him a glass of water, a white tablet, and a pre-packed bag of his own clothes and toiletries. She sits across from him as he sits up and calmly states the facts while he gulps down the medicine and water. She tells him that she loves him, that she has always loved him, but that he is not the man she married, not anymore. She says that the man she married would never associate with a criminal like Sherlock Holmes, would never throw his career away as Lestrade has for such a despicable character, would never drink himself to oblivion as he has so frequently as of late. She explains rather matter-of-factly and, then, tells him that she is leaving him – _again_ – this time, for good.

Lestrade apologizes listlessly; it feels the thing to do even if he can barely stomach the words. He tidies himself up enough to leave and bids her goodbye. He kisses her cheek, just a peck, and promises to ring their lawyer as soon as possible. She informs him that she already has made that call, and Lestrade nods. It is all so final, so neat.

He wanders London in a daze for some time before ending up on John Watson’s doorstep. Fortunately, the doctor is scheduled for a late night shift and is home at the time. John lets him in without question, without reproach. He makes some toast and tea for the clearly sickly Lestrade and listens as his friend explains the situation with his wife. Lestrade lips at the offering and tries not to cry as his eyes blur with unshed tears.

A particularly odious looking cat appears from nowhere, mewing at Lestrade’s ankles, and John visibly cringes. This, Lestrade realizes, must be the demon cat that the doctor has despised these long months. It is a disgusting looking thing that reeks of piss, with ratty fur and a snaggle tooth that gives the animal a permanent sneer. However, in that moment, it seems to sense the fallen inspector’s sorrows, nuzzling at the man and staring up with wide, baleful eyes. Leave it to animals to understand grief.

He smirks and chortles oddly. “Cute cat.”

John rolls his eyes. “You take him, then.”

Lestrade reaches down to pet the cat, and the thing turns instantly. It hisses, spits, and lashes out with claws and teeth. Those long talons catch the man sharply, drawing blood on the back of his hand before running for the back of the apartment.

“I’ll pass.”

John laughs in earnest, perhaps the first time Lestrade has ever heard such a sound from the doctor since before Sherlock’s trial. Lestrade finds himself chuckling as well. It feels good to laugh, despite everything that has happened. It feels right.

John sighs and shakes his head before blurting out, “Look, I know this is crazy, and it’s probably wrong of me to ask…. but, you wouldn’t happen to need a flat share, would you?”

xxx 

xxxxx

xxx

Sherlock cannot be certain of how much time he has spent in prison. His world has narrowed, distilling down to endless cycles of pain so bright it burns and hunger so profound that it wells as a sinkhole within him. The guards like to play with the lights in his cell, leaving them on or off for days on end, it seems. Without a natural rhythm of light or food offerings, Sherlock has no idea how to track the progression of his sentence – his doom. He marks it only by the occasional visits from Moriarty, who brings with him a new weapon and a new method of harming the fallen detective.

He still tries to gauge the time; it gives Sherlock something to do. On the first few days after a visit from Moriarty, all Sherlock can do is hug himself against the pain and stare at the pictures on the wall. After that, he _needs_ something to do, to keep his mind occupied. He mentally thumbs through old cases at first and other related materials, but that hurts so much more than any beating Moriarty can dish out. Calculating the passage of time based off of the growth of his hair or nails – _rates reduced due to the steadily worsening malnutrition and dehydration, of course_ \- and other clues offers him something devoid of the heavy emotional influence.

Sherlock estimates that nearly four months have passed. He runs the numbers nearly daily, cross examining the limited evidence offered by his situation. There is no way he can tell how accurate his calculations are, but Sherlock is fairly certain his calculations lie within a 5 to 7 % margin of error.

It is at this point that a milestone occurs. John has asked for visitation frequently. Sherlock knows this because the guards taunt him daily about phone calls from his “lover-boy” and other, more distastefully homophobic slurs. They tease Sherlock and tell him about how hurt John sounded to be turned down, again. However, out of the blue, around four months into his incarceration, the guards on Moriarty’s payroll stop bringing these reports to Sherlock. John has stopped calling; John has moved on.

A part of Sherlock aches to realize that his last lifeline has gotten on with his life. Moriarty takes great pleasure emphasizing this during his next visit as he repeatedly strikes Sherlock’s flank with a steel bat. Sherlock blocks out Moriarty’s hateful words as best he can. He knows John’s personality, his psychological profile. He knows, better than John’s therapist, that John would need to move on eventually for his own sanity. Sherlock hurts, but he understands John’s mental health needs must surely supercede a supposed friend who seems to have so effectively turned his back as Sherlock has.

When Moriarty leaves that day, and Sherlock stares at the pictures, he finds a faint smile gracing his lips. He suffers, yes, but his friends are safe and, if John’s lack of calls is any indication, putting their lives back together. It is all he can hope for anymore.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

Lestrade and John spend a few weeks hunkering down and concealing the soon-to-be single man from Dr. Rahlston. During that time, the two scour London for a flat to share. Lestrade’s uncertain future with the Met makes the process difficult, but, so long as he remains on administrative leave, the detective has a modest income enough to match John’s severance from his service and his pay from the clinic. The thought of having a roommate without a nasty feline companion has John so optimistic that he continually assures Lestrade that, no matter the outcome of the inquiry, they will find a way to make a flatshare work.

They visit several flats and as sorely disappointed with the flats within their price range. Many are too small or dilapidated to the point of possibly being a human health hazard. One is infested with some sort of insect that scatters in the light before either man can identify them. Another is situated so close to a rail line that the entire flat shakes like something out of a bad comedy whenever a train goes by – which is often. One rather choice option is above a laundromat and stinks intensely of chemicals. Another is above a rowdy bar that Lestrade recognizes from several police reports. The few promising listings they have seen within their price range recognized either man from Sherlock’s rather public fall from grace and later decline to ring back.

Lestrade is surprised to find during the second week of their search that John visits Mrs. Hudson ever other week for tea and some sort of dessert, and, having nothing better to do as the inquiry stretches on, Lestrade joins the doctor. Mrs. Hudson fusses and clucks over the two men as though they are her own sons, offering them just about everything in her kitchen at one point or another. She listens with a sympathetic ear as John relates the various trials of their quest for a flat.

“Oh, John, why didn’t you ever just say something?” She pleads, wringing her hands in maternal exasperation. “You should just come back here. The only people who’ve come to view the place have been just dreadful, coming to see it because of Sherlock and not any interest in actually renting the place.” She pats him on the shoulder, tenderly, motherly. “I’ll even reduce the rent if it’s a question of affording it.”

John shakes head, looking down. “No, I can’t.”

Mrs. Hudson frowns, and Lestrade knows she has touched a nerve with John that the doctor is not willing to admit just yet. He can visit her flat for brief spells, yes, but John cannot bring himself to step into either B or C flats after losing Sherlock to the penal system.

She quickly and mindfully changes the subject. “So, Inspector Lestrade, how have you been keeping in all this?”

Lestrade winces. “It’s technically not ‘Inspector’ right now, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. It just slipped my mind,” she exclaims, horror stricken by her own faux pas.

“It’s alright,” he assures her. “And, please, it’s Greg. Just Greg.” He looks mindfully at John and stabs a finger at the doctor. “You, too.”

From then on, he is Greg, as easily as if he had always been.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

Sherlock curls up tightly as a pillbug about the squat, steel toilet and presses his cheek upon it, moaning absently as his abused flesh contacts the chilled metal. The cool metal of the toilet is the only meager relief from the pain that Sherlock has at his disposal. He surmises from the swelling of the tissue, the white hot agony singing through his right orbital series, and the restricted motion of his eye that he has sustained a blowout fracture during Moriarty’s most recent visit. The consulting criminal had been a bit overzealous; Sherlock shivers, uncertain if it stems from the lingering memory of Moriarty’s gleeful expression while swinging the bat or if it is from shock.

His stomach growls, lurching painfully as it does. Sherlock grimaces and struggles to wrap his arms about his stomach, clutching his gut as though to offer some small comfort. He has not eaten in days. The guards have begun to play a new game in which they leave his meals outside the cell, just within smelling range to rot and allow Sherlock to savor only the decay. Sherlock had been accustomed before his incarceration of eating lightly on the run during a case, but prolonged malnutrition before this has made the involuntary fast a surprisingly inventive and effective torture. He knows when they feed him next, it will be tainted and spoiled for him to vomit up.

Sherlock closes his eyes to retreat to his mind palace. It is hard to focus, and the ache of the facial trauma and many injuries continually claws him away. Before all this, visits to and tending of his mind palace were as second nature to him after years of cultivating the practice. Now, Sherlock finds it harder and harder to maintain any sort of stay in his mind palace. He conserves his energy and attention for moments when he truly needs it.

Now is one such moment.

His mind palace is not what it once was. It has steadily decayed about him over the course of the last few months, but Sherlock has had neither the energy nor the concern necessary to make any repairs. The power flickers intermittently, causing bulbs to dim and flash. Jagged cracks split the walls and foundation, allowing narrow trickles of water to dribble in. Sherlock furrows his brow and peers out a mildewed window to find a torrential downpour outside – something that has never happened before. The once lush carpet squelches beneath his feet, soaked through with water intrusion. He continues on, only to find most of the doors locked and barred against his own entry; they are marked ‘UNIMPORTANT,’ ‘INCONSEQUENTIAL,’ ‘TRIVIAL,’ and ‘CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.’ Sherlock struggles to recall what was stored there despite his own logic screaming against it, but the information is just as hopelessly lost as expected. Sherlock does not worry. He knows the information remains behind those doors, ready to be accessed should it _become_ consequential again – although he doubts it considering his rather intractable situation - and damage can be repaired.

At the end of the main hall, Sherlock finds his goal. The room is perfect replica of the Baker St. flat. He closes the door behind himself and sighs. Everything is perfect, right down to the angle of the skull on the mantle and the last place he set his violin. Yet, a part of Sherlock quakes inside with uncomfortable sentimentality in which he has never indulged before. He knows, logically, that the flat does not look like this anymore. Sherlock tries not to allow that bother him, savoring instead the sight of the flat with slow, sweeping circles about the room.

Sherlock jolts back awake when a boot connects with his ribs, gasping as he does. At first, he cannot breathe. His nose is sticky with blood and mucus enough to block the air. He gulps awkwardly, as a fish out of water until he catches his breath. One of his guards laughs haughtily, the sound booming in Sherlock’s ears.

As soon as Sherlock collects himself, the guard kneels down and growls. “Your faggy little doctor friend and his new boyfriend got themselves a new place.”

He paws at Sherlock, groping his ruined cheek and jaw, forcing the convict to stare him in the face. Sherlock groans from the pressure on his fresh injuries but musters the best glare he can, granted the facial trauma. He knows this guard, too well. The man is aging, overweight, and graying, with a pinched face and drawn skin. This guard, out of all the others on Sherlock-duty, has made it a point to draw out and savor Sherlock’s suffering, seeming to enjoy it all too much. Some distance part of Sherlock’s mind deduces away but comes up with only one word. _Sadist_.

Sherlock’s gaze drops to take in the name on his badge as the man speaks again; Harrison. “Guess that officially puts you on the market.”

A lecherous hand strokes down his flank, but a part of him warms mildly at the thought. Lestrade and John have found themselves a flat. Sherlock is oddly happy at the thought. He knows Lestrade’s career is likely ruined by Sherlock’s confession, but he knows it was a necessary evil. At least he can take some comfort in knowing that John will take care of Lestrade and vice versa.

It is a small comfort, but it is all Sherlock has these days. He clings to it for all its worth even as he is stripped of his only clothing. He fixes his eyes upon the photographs on the wall, forcing himself to stare at the images of Lestrade, John, and Mrs. Hudson in the desperate hope that it will make this all slightly more bearable, but it does nothing to blunt the shock and agony of this – his first sexual encounter in his life. He tries not to cry out, to bite his tongue in spite of the indignities inflicted upon his body and maintain some level of the grace and pride once so finely hewn within, but that is all forgotten and replaced by the searing, fresh, and quite novel torture. He mewls pathetically, which only serves to further entice Harrison.

Afterwards, when Harrison is spent and Sherlock lies discarded, he hugs himself against it all and tries desperately not to look at the pictures.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

Not long after the visit with Mrs. Hudson, Greg and John find a suitable flat. It is cramped and small, but it will do for them. No. It _has_ to suffice. Greg’s wife has served him with divorce papers, and Dr. Rahlston’s patience with the extended guest has finally worn out. So, the positively pint-sized flat with the claustrophobic bath and sub-standard kitchen will have to do.

The pair move into the flat in short time. John never got out of the military engrained habit of keeping his possessions limited nor the mindset of keeping his kit ready, and Greg took little to nothing from his flat, leaving the rest of it for his wife. Matched china sets, crockery, and color coordinated curtains never suited Greg enough to bother with arguing over such trivial things that were more _her_ concern than his. While John works at the clinic, Greg shops for necessities for the flat, and, in no time, they are set enough.

Shortly after moving, while questing for the broom, Greg spies a curious box tucked in the coat closet at the entry. It is not anything of his, nor anything he recalls of John’s. John had been quite keen to keep his possessions tidy and organized in his room, out of Greg’s way. He pries open the top and blinks in surprise at an unmistakable skull and violin case. Greg gives pause, and, before John can see him, he lifts the skull from the box. The detective inspector isn’t certain why he does it, but he takes the thing. Greg secrets the skull away and tucks it into a hidden corner of his desk, visible only when seated at the precise right angle.

The next day, the results of the inquiry post. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade has been found to have shown questionable judgment, risking a considerable amount of cases and potentially breaching the ethics of his position. However, the Met cannot conclusively find him guilty of intentionally committing any crime, despite his association with Sherlock Holmes. Therefore, they will not be firing him. Instead, they do their worst and reassign Greg to a desk jockey position. It is a demeaning demotion, but one Greg can live with for the time being. His retirement is only four short years away – not that he’s counting –and he can survive in office for that long.

Greg returns to the force the following Monday. He packs up his few personal effects from his office while Sally Donovan stands at the doorframe for just a few, long moments without saying a word before moving on. Sally had been a key witness against Sherlock, and, so, her testimony has damned Greg and his career as well. It does not matter, not anymore.

Greg moves his things down to a tiny box of a cubicle amid a sea of other typing fools. He does not bother unpacking. This isn’t his office, his space to be personal and decorate with sentimental knick-knacks. He sets to work, documenting for depositions and cataloging evidence for a few cases, delving into the drudgery that is to be the tortuous rest of his public service career until his retirement.

Later that night, at the flat, when Greg cannot bring himself to answer the few inquiries John offers about the office out of politeness alone, the doctor pours out a glass of scotch for each of them. The alcohol burns at the back of his throat as Greg gulps it down, but it is such a sweet, slow burn, the best medicine the doctor could order. The pair sip in silence and try not to consider how far everything and everyone has fallen in such a short time.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

It is perverse how much, after less than a year, Sherlock has come to anticipate Moriarty’s visits. In fact, if pressed, he might even say he has begun to _look forward_ to Moriarty’s appearances, for however sick it sounds. Moriarty tortures him, yes, but the consulting criminal has his limits. Despite Sherlock’s extended nudity, Moriarty has never touched him sexually, unlike Harrison, the guard. Harrison violates him frequently, taunting Sherlock and forcing the convict to debase himself in the most vile and creative of manners. Moriarty reserves himself to damaging Sherlock’s physical body, nothing more, and his visits are often followed by at least a day or more reprieve from Harrison. A part of Sherlock idly ponders if it is because the damage left in the wake of Moriarty’s visits renders him too grotesque to fuck for a few days.

This time, however, something is different. After a brief encounter with a blunt object, Moriarty pauses and strolls the now filthy, stinking cell with the casual air of a man perusing an art gallery. He paces slowly before the photos on the wall, stroking his chin in contemplation.

Sherlock wants to fume, to swell and burn with rage. Instead, he tenses, quivering with an uncomfortable, overwhelming emotion which might be akin to fear. His heart hammers painfully in his chest, thumping violently against his eardrums with thunderous quakes. Those pictures are his only link to John, Lestrade, or Mrs. Hudson, and they have become his whole world. They are the only thing motivating him to keep going, keep taking this abuse and these indignities flung upon him.

A part of Sherlock shatters inwardly when Moriarty snatches the photos from the wall. He feels himself crumpling inwardly as Jim folds the papers and tucks them neatly away in his jacket pocket. His eyes prickle and blur with tears, but Sherlock forces them down. He will not cry, not over three photographs printed off a home inkjet, and certainly _not_ in front of Jim Moriarty. Instead, he kneels where his abuser has left him, curling his hands about his bony ribcage and holding himself tightly against this fresh grief to keep from flying apart.

The consulting criminal claps his hands together and grins madly from ear to ear. “We’ve been getting close, these last few months, haven’t we, Sherlock?”

Sherlock does not answer. He is not certain he can answer between the mushy pulp that is the soft tissue of his battered face or the uncertain and troubling emotions storming within. Instead, all he can bring himself to do is roll his eyes. It is the only defiance Sherlock can offer up after everything he has been through on this day, no matter how wrong it feels.

“I thought, being how close we’ve gotten, that we ought to exchange presents.”

Sherlock blinks, incredulously. Presents? Sherlock has already given everything to Moriarty. His freedom, his life, his blood, his sweat, his pain, his dignity. Everything. There is nothing more for Sherlock to offer, even if he understood why they should be exchanging gifts.

Moriarty feigns surprise and shock. “Oh. Don’t tell me you forgot to get me something for Christmas.”

Sherlock grits his teeth. His estimates of time are off. He has thought it was later, perhaps closer to Easter. Time and his understanding of its progression are slipping through months of torture. He has been hoping Christmas would fly by unnoticed and unremembered. It has been easier to ignore the holiday altogether, instead of musing on holidays past at Baker St.

Moriarty nods. “That’s ok. I thought ahead, as always.” He reaches into his other jacket pocket and pulls out a pair of pliers, flashing them about. “I’ll tell you what. You give me a present, and I’ll give you a present.”

Sherlock closes his eyes; he is tired of this already but submits anyway. “Why?”

Jim gleams and pulls an envelope from his pocket. “You give me something good, and I’ll give you new pictures.” Sherlock blanches, visibly despite how pale he has become over the months; Moriarty puts on an overly dramatic pout. “Oh, don’t tell me those photos didn’t mean the world to you. I saw how you looked at them, how shaken up you are now that I’ve taken them. You can’t hide yourself all that well anymore, my friend, not from me.”

Sherlock freezes, his blood running cold, but he forces himself to steel himself enough to extend an open palm and grind out, “What do you want?”

Moriarty drops the pliers in Sherlock’s near skeletal hand and shrugs. “How about an even trade? Three toes for three pictures hot off the press and taken just yesterday.”

The convict’s trembles increase as he wraps his fingers around the handles of the pliers. A lifetime ago, Sherlock would never had even considered such a horrific trade. Yet, this broken shell of a man that calls himself Sherlock Holmes is not that man. This man is weak and pathetic enough to need those new pictures. He _needs_ to see an update on his friends just to know that this suffering has been worth it, as much as he needs air to breathe.

It’s funny; he does not actually feel the pliers clamp down on his left pinky toe just below the joint until his hand crushes down on the handles. Then, the pain is so bright, so hot, it is almost exquisite, drawing the agony from the rest of his body down to one place. All of his other pains fade away as the metal chews down into his flesh. Sherlock clenches his teeth to keep from screaming as the pliers cut through his skin and muscle but go no further. At first, Sherlock does not think he bears the strength to cut through his own bone, not until he spies Moriarty and the envelope out of the corner of his blurred vision. The pliers slam closed with a meaty crunch of bone and a blood curdling scream from Sherlock.

When the agony dims enough for Sherlock to return to himself, he finds himself staring strangely, numbly at the cleaved digit on the floor before him. His toe. His own toe. He goes cold at the thought of what he has done, but Moriarty does not move, does not flinch. Sherlock reaches out with shaking fingers. He picks up his own toe in quivering fingers and offers it to Moriarty, struggling to lift his arm high enough.

Jim takes the toe and considers it momentarily before scowling. “You know, I don’t think a toe is quite what I wanted for Christmas.” When he looks down, it is with sadistic glee. “How about you make the next two fingers?”

Sherlock’s stomach sours enough that he honestly gags. He heaves, but there is fortunately nothing in his gullet to bring up save a few, measly hacks of bile. It is so thick it does not even splash when it hits the floor beside him. Instead, it puddles there in a thick, putrid ooze. In the end, Sherlock makes himself do it, but he dry heaves again and again in between and after the butchery.

Moriarty crouches before Sherlock as he lies there, holding his mangled left hand close to his chest and pressing down to staunch the blood loss. “That looks nasty. Better cauter the wound.” He holds a lighter to each of the amputation sites until the skin sizzles, burns and blackens, sealing off the wounds while Sherlock shrieks. “There now,” Jim croons, carding his hand effortlessly over Sherlock’s tangled, greasy, and overgrown curls. “That wasn’t so bad.” He rises and tapes up three new pictures. “Now, I am a man of my word.” Moriarty gives a grin and a wave. “Happy Christmas.”

Sherlock groans limply, unable to make any sort of retort as he once would have. He stays there, on the floor where Moriarty has left him for some time, drifting in and out of consciousness. It takes hours before Sherlock comes back to himself.

When coherency returns, he looks up to the photos and smiles, absently, despite himself. The new photos depict John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson in all three taken from just outside the windows. They are together in a small, unfamiliar flat – most likely John and Lestrade’s new lodgings. A small, faux tree adorns an end table in the corner. A Christmas party, then. The first photo shows the three seated around a tiny kitchen table over a meal, toasting with glasses of wine over their holiday fare. The remaining two display the three in the living room, exchanging presents.

They look….. happy.

It hurts somehow to see and know that, but Sherlock savors the new images. The pictures mean that his friends remain healthy and safe. They mean that this torture, this suffering is still a worthwhile trade.

Sherlock sighs heavily and sags in an almost palpable relief.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

Christmas comes and goes thankfully uneventfully with a simple meal and gift exchange, and New Years Eve progresses just as quietly. Mrs. Hudson joins the boys again for New Years but catches a cab well before midnight, citing her aching hip. In the end, John and Greg end up modestly toasting at the count down before tucking off to bed.

John sits up late after that in bed, in thought. The last year has been somewhat lost to him. He’s worked at the clinic, treating mostly the uninsured and the drug addled, getting many of them to commit to detox and rehab. It should be satisfying work, but John has had the lingering sensation that, each day, he has merely been going through the motions. John Watson has become a worker bee, with no aspiration in his life anymore.

He rubs his shoulder idly. It’s simple; all of the thrill has gone out of his life, dispelled as a fog by dawn’s first rays when Sherlock walked out of his life. His injury took him from the battlefields of Afghanistan, and Sherlock’s confession and incarceration stole the battlefield of London from him. His life has none of the same meaning anymore, despite the good John knows he performs through the clinic.

John nods to himself, his resolve cemented by this realization. He makes a single resolution for the year. He will get back in touch with Sherlock, even if it kills him, even if it ruins him. John might not be able to return to solving crimes with the man, but, at least then, the doctor can hope to regain some of that spark within himself.

The doctor waits until the next Monday and calls the prison, asking to visit. Again, he receives word that Sherlock has specifically requested no visitors. John asks for a post address for Sherlock.

John writes him a letter. In it, he talks about his time at the clinic, of living with Greg, of Mrs. Hudson. He babbles, to be honest. Sherlock will likely dismiss it as meaningless drivel, but it does not mean that John won’t keep trying. At the end, he both asks Sherlock to consider having visitors and promises to write next week.

The very next Monday, John calls the prison again and writes another letter.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

When Sherlock’s hand fails to heal quickly enough for Moriarty’s liking and shows clear signs of festering, the consulting criminal has the guards shackle Sherlock up once more and parade him up to the prison infirmary in the nude. The other inmates taunt and catcall Sherlock as he is dragged through the halls, staggering and limping off his mutilated foot. He shudders inwardly and hunches as best he can over himself, but it is not enough to cover himself.

Sherlock’s head spins as he walks. Just a few short months ago, he could have stared down any of these convicts in the eye and had them begging for their mother. Now, he cannot even stomach anything more than a quick glance in their direction. They are too much for him. Their movements, even the slighter ones, seem too drastic, too swift, and too overwhelming. A lesser man might rationalize it is because of his shame, but, despite everything that has happened to him thus far, Sherlock is not that man, not yet. His mind whispers soft nothings about solitary confinement and the potential for intense psychological damage.

In the infirmary, a sour looking old man tends to Sherlock’s fingers, clucking over them and musing over how they could fail to scab properly, granted Moriarty’s meager ministrations while the consulting criminal in question watches on. Sherlock snorts but holds his tongue. He could tell both Moriarty and this miserable excuse of a doctor why the wounds on his hand refuse to knit up properly. Harrison enjoys squeezing Sherlock’s hand while he violates the fallen detective, sneering in delight at Sherlock’s shrieks of agony. Harrison refuses to allow Sherlock’s hand to heal because, despite the distasteful appearance of the wound, he savors the pathetic, mewling sounds Sherlock makes.

As the doctor tends to the wound, debriding the burn with saline flushes and tweezers, Sherlock tenses. He grips the edge of the chair upon which the doctor has sat him with his free hand, fighting to keep from flying from the thing. In his cell, it is easy to submit. In his cell, he is faced with the pictures of John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, painful reminders of the cost of any disobedience, where there are none here. In his cell, there are no weapons, nothing for Sherlock to use to fight back with, but, here, in the infirmary, weapons are plentiful. The chair beneath him, the table upon which his ruined hand rests while the doctor works, the many tools, even the needle from the meager, charitable round of local anesthetic administered before the doctor set to work.

Sherlock’s body hums with electric charge, building and swelling with each passing moment until the doctor mentions something about aftercare and he cannot stand it anymore, flinging himself from the chair. He rears back, his good hand snagging the back of the chair. Sherlock swings out with the chair, hurling it towards the doctor and guards. However, too late is his mistake realized. The chair is too heavy for him in this weak, emaciated state to do any real damage, and, so, Sherlock lunges forward for the tray of tools. He holds the steel plate out defensively, ducking back into a corner.

Moriarty clicks his teeth and shakes his head from the far side of the infirmary; he pats the pocket of his jacket where his mobile resides and chides Sherlock like a disappointed father, “Shouldn’t have done that, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinks, dumbfounded by his own actions and somewhat startled when he realizes what has actually just happened. He has stepped out of line, badly, and, for all Sherlock knows, his only friends in the world may pay for his transgression. The tray feels alien and traitorous in his hand, and he drops it. The thing clatters to the floor, the sound echoing painfully in Sherlock’s ears as he shivers violently and collapses to his knees.

_‘What have I done?’_ It is the only coherent thought in Sherlock’s racing mind.

He flinches when a guard touches him, grabbing his arm to drag him up, but Sherlock does not fight. The anger and aggression have flooded out of him in a tidal surge, leaving behind only a deep, piercing despair at the thought of what is to come in the wake of this terrible error. He walks in quiet, terrified compliance as icy tendrils wrap down his spine with each passing footfall of Moriarty at his heels.

Back at the cell, Sherlock kneels and hangs his head low for Moriarty, immediately and without command in silent supplication. Moriarty says nothing. He allows Sherlock to sit there, practically hyperventilating with harsh, unfulfilling and unsteady gulps of air as his heartbeats pound deafeningly in his ears. Sherlock knows now, after his behavior in the infirmary, he needs to be as apologetic as humanly possible, acquiescing even.

In time, Moriarty drops a hand on Sherlock’s bare shoulder, squeezing painfully with his thumb on the brittle seeming collarbone. “You really shouldn’t have done that, Sherlock. Not now that we’ve been getting on so very nicely.”

Sherlock cringes, squeezing his eyes shut. He could not help himself in the infirmary. He could do nothing to stop his body from acting out of the strongly rooted instinct to flee, to defend against harm to one’s self. How can Moriarty blame him after so many months without an opening?

“Although, I can’t say I’m surprised,” Moriarty sings all too cheerfully in Sherlock’s ear. “I’ve been waiting for you to fight back.”

Sherlock blinks stupidly once more, suddenly and utterly ashamed of himself. He has played right into Moriarty’s palm once more. A critical error wrought by survival instincts. Moriarty has planned for this inevitability. A fresh wave of terror spreads through Sherlock at the realization, and his heart hammers at his ribcage with painful throbs.

_‘Should have known….’_

“First, for spurning my magnanimous care of your hand,” Moriarty says, gesturing to the guards.

The burly men on Moriarty’s payroll hold Sherlock down on his stomach. He tries not to struggle, not to enrage his nemesis any further, but it is so very difficult with so much adrenaline coursing through his veins. He is only human, despite a lifetime of previous insistence otherwise. No matter how he might try, Sherlock cannot control the symphony of physiological and chemical reactions intended to preserve his life. He cannot force down the feelings of dread and abject horror, especially not when one of the bulkier guards kneels beside him and draws a dangerous looking blade from his kit.

Sherlock shrieks when the knife digs into his right thigh, just above his knee. The guard mucks about there, dragging the blade through muscle and tendons. Sherlock screams, his voice rising higher and higher until it cracks. All that remains as the guard lowers his knife to a spot on Sherlock’s calf and butchers the leg there, is a cracked, reedy hiss, barely a voice. The guard guts Sherlock’s leg, severing the muscle and connective tissue critical for walking and supporting his weight. The guard cripples Sherlock.

When they are finished, when Sherlock is reduced to nothing more than a quivering, sniveling mess on the floor amid his own blood, the doctor comes to tend to the wounds. Instead of repairing the damage, though, to Sherlock’s ruined muscular structures, he merely stems the bleeding and sutures off the wounds before wrapping them. This excuse for a doctor and his treatment will leave Sherlock hobbled, at best, for the rest of his miserable existence.

After that, Moriarty gestures with a flick of his wrist for his staff to leave them. He waits patiently as Sherlock desperately attempts to gather himself where he lies. The criminal bathes in Sherlock’s suffering, enjoying every minute of it, and, so, Sherlock takes as much time as is allowed. He shivers violently against the shock, against the pain, and the blood loss, nothing more than a mess of human scraps in a forgotten pit.

In time, when the pain has subsided enough for him to be mildly coherent, Sherlock lifts his gaze and nearly spits. While he lies in his own filth and blood, Moriarty remains ever the impeccably attired businessman. He hasn’t even a fleck of scarlet upon him, despite the violence he has just administered against his foe. In fact, Moriarty hardly even seems put off by what Sherlock knows what must be a grotesque, stomach churning scene.

Moriarty crouches down to Sherlock’s level, cupping the fallen detective’s head and cradling it up ever so slightly to better meet his gaze. “Now, for your disobedience.” He sneers, right in Sherlock’s face. “Pick one.”

Sherlock furrows his brow, then winces from the facial contortion – even that hurts now. He shakes his head. His pain is a blinding, incandescent thing, blotting out any reasonable, rational thought. It has left him profoundly defenseless in a way that Sherlock cannot fathom at the moment. In fact, the convict cannot fathom anything beyond the agony of his own existence.

Moriarty smiles almost tenderly, as though coaching a small, insecure child. “The woman, the doctor, or the officer?”

Sherlock’s heart misses a beat at the thought. In another life, he might have conjectured it was a stress phenomena between the trauma of his leg and the sudden mental and emotional blow Moriarty has dealt. However, now, Sherlock can only think on the offer laid upon him.

“Pick one.”

Sherlock shudders and glances wildly at the holiday photographs over Moriarty’s shoulders. How can he pick? How can he decide after everything that has happened who will suffer because of his mistake? How? It is absolutely and cruelly inhuman and inhumane of Moriarty to ask him to pick. Sherlock cannot bring himself to answer. In fact, even if he could force himself to chose, only unintelligible sounds and grunts of pain come out of his mouth. Unable to answer or offer anything in English response, Sherlock just shakes his head again and again in blind desperation.

Moriarty shushes him almost affectionately and tenderly rubs Sherlock’s forehead. “Shh shh.” He waits for Sherlock to still and his sounds to dim to nothing but soft whimpers before speaking again. “Don’t worry. Since you don’t seem able, I’ll pick for you.”

Moriarty drops Sherlock and strides out, slamming the door behind him and leaving Sherlock to his misery. Alone at last, Sherlock looks once more to the pictures, to the smiling, bittersweet images of his friends. He stares as best he can until his vision blurs, and, then, he blinks violently, trying to clear his sight to see those pictures better. The transition occurs so swiftly that Sherlock does not even know when the crying begins, but, suddenly, he is acutely aware of the lurching sobs that have taken his body and the steady stream of salty tears running down his cheeks.

Sherlock cries for the first time since the rooftop. He howls soundlessly, spittle dribbling down his chin and he sobs. It aches, both physically and emotionally, to cry so, but Sherlock does, giving in to the despair that has hunted him all these long months. The old Sherlock would have never done something as childish as this, but something has broken in Sherlock, leaving him a wreck.

Sherlock cries until, eventually, either sleep or unconsciousness takes him.

Then, he is haunted with nightmares of his friends hurting at the hands of Moriarty in a variety of tortures. He wakes frequently from mindless, terrifying nightmares to fresh bouts of tears and sobs. It becomes a viscous cycle through the night, into the next day and beyond. Sherlock loses any of his limited sense of time as he drifts in his sorrowed haze.

However, all Sherlock _can_ do is wait until Moriarty returns to gloat over whatever awfulness he will do.

xxx 

xxxxx

xxx

When Greg’s mobile rings in the middle of his shift and the screen displays ‘CALLER UNKNOWN,’ it puts him on immediate edge. No one calls Gregory Lestrade out of the blue, not now that he lacks any semblance of a social life and especially not now that he has zero involvement with any of the more high profile investigations of his past.

“Yes?” he answers curtly.

Surprisingly, a youthful, male voice responds in question, “Is this Mr. Lestrade?”

Greg’s brow knits in immediate concern. “Yes, yes it is. Who is this?”

“Uh, I know this is kind of weird, but my name is Chris,” the young voice explains, awkwardly stumbling over the words. “Do you know a Mrs. Hudson?”

“What’s this all about? Where is Mrs. Hudson?” Greg demands.

“She’s right here. She’s just…. she’s a little upset right now.” The stranger tries and fails to explain. “She asked me to ring you to come pick her up.”

“What happened?” Greg barks, a sinking pit welling in her stomach.

“Some twat mugged her.”

Greg barely hears the rest of the phone conversation. He scribbles down the address, a crossroads at the very edge of the Chelsea College of Art and Design grounds. Greg blurts out an explanation to his supervisor before bolting. The drive to the college goes by in a blur, but Greg makes his way to the scene, where a small crowd of curious gawking students has already gathered. A pair of local patrolmen flank the bench, penning their notes on the matter.

In the center of it all is a bruised and mussy Mrs. Hudson. She is sitting, clenching her handkerchief in a white-knuckled grip, sobbing on a park bench at the corner. Beside her sits a young man in ragged, stained jeans and a punk band t-shirt. The young fellow is speaking to her in such soft tones that Greg cannot hear the words, uttering soft comforting sounds.

“Mrs. Hudson,” Greg breathes, pushing through the crowd to her side.

“Oh, Greg,” she cries, melting into him as the officer wraps his arms about her.

He shushes her sobs, rubbing her hair. “I’m here. I’m here now.”

The young fellow touches her shoulder. “You’re okay now.” The voice is unmistakably the man from the phone call as he looks to Greg. “You’ve got this?”

“Yeah.” As the stranger goes to leave, Greg recalls his manners. “Thank you.”

The officers finish taking their notes and explain to Greg the situation. As it turns out, Mrs. Hudson had been jumped by two men who struck her and snatched her purse before fleeing. Chris – a student from the art school – had found her, stayed with her until the patrolmen came, and rang Greg on his phone. After that, she hysterically refused medical attention before Greg arrived on the scene, but, now that he is there, the two patrolmen and Greg convince the woman to see a doctor. She agrees, but only if it is John. No other. The officers assist Greg in getting Mrs. Hudson into his car, and he drives her to the clinic.

John is shocked when he sees them, but he tends to the small cuts and bruises that Mrs. Hudson has suffered. She is lucky, very lucky. Neither Greg nor John need to be reminded of that. She could have been killed right out in broad daylight over the pitiful billfold in her purse and her mobile. Thankfully, no harm has been done, except for some fraying of her nerves and further graying of her hair.

They take her back to their flat that night and cook a humble, bachelor’s dinner for her of pasta and tomato sauce. John offers Mrs. Hudson his bed, and he spends the night on the couch. He sits up for some time and thinks on the matter in depth. It is all somehow anticlimactic and awful at the same time, reminding John of the CIA agents who had attacked Mrs. Hudson so savagely at Baker St. over Irene Adler’s damnable mobile. And, yet, this attack was entirely random.

John declines to include this in his weekly letter to Sherlock; Sherlock does not need to know what happened to Mrs. Hudson when he was not here to protect her.

xxx

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xxx

Sherlock does not need John to describe what happened; Moriarty provides photographs. The consulting criminal removes the holiday photographs from the wall and posts up three more images from the attack. The new images of Mrs. Hudson in pain and terror hurt Sherlock more profoundly than anything else in the once great detective’s closed world. Moriarty leaves those for Sherlock in his agony. He tries not to look at them, but, whenever Sherlock does, the photographs draw fresh tears from the man for his failure to protect the defenseless, old woman.

His world condenses further to one of fresh indignities against his body. Now that the tendons and muscles to his right leg have been so brutally hacked apart, Sherlock cannot stand well, if at all. He has not been strong enough to lift himself from the floor despite his efforts. As such, Sherlock has been reduced to a quivering mass on the cold stone. He cannot even find the energy to drag himself up enough to relieve himself on the toilet like a civilized man. Instead, Sherlock is left to piss and shit himself. It is perhaps fortunate then that his prison issued boxers have never been returned.

After the mutilation, there comes one small blessing. Harrison no longer finds Sherlock attractive enough to violate, it seems. A part of Sherlock trembles at the though, but he dare not question. While the wounds knit up, it gives him well needed respite from the torment of the sexual abuse. When the slashes heal up enough for tentative movement, Harrison still does not touch Sherlock. The once consulting detective takes this as a mixed blessing, savoring the long spells between Moriarty’s visits oddly.

Then, out of the blue, Harrison brings down another convict and offers Sherlock to him. Sherlock does as he is demanded, performing as best he can, but it is a struggle. When the convict is done and Sherlock is nothing more than a sticky, cowering mess, Harrison punishes him for his failure, beating him black and blue.

When Harrison returns a day or so later with another convict – another _client_ – Sherlock understands. It is clearer now through Harrison than it has ever been through Moriarty’s abuse. He is not a man anymore. He is a thing, a larvae, a commodity of bone and stringy sinew. He is meant only for the pleasure of others, and not anything else.

Sherlock stops attempting to count time after that; time is meaningless to objects.

xxx

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xxx

John posts letter after letter until he reaches a point when he runs out of things to actually say. After letter upon letter of needling Sherlock to answer him by gossiping about the most mindless of subjects left and right, he spends the better part of one Monday wondering what exactly Sherlock might actually _enjoy_ reading about. At first, John contemplates writing about the various crime reports before realizing how grave of an error that might be to remind Sherlock of the life he cannot have anymore.

When John glances at his laptop, metaphoric lightning strikes. The Science of Deduction. Sherlock might not be able to solve crimes anymore, but that does not mean that his great big brain will not enjoy the latest news of innovative research and experiments. John searches about the web for a bit before finding a suitable rapid-peer review journal. Sherlock will love this, he knows, for he will be able to sit there and punch holes in poorly written papers or theories.

John spends the better part of an hour transcribing the abstracts for a few promising papers. One paper speaks of the Incan mountain mummies. Another is a paper detailing the various chemical impurities of the Thames linked to shipping bilge water. The third paper details the importation of exotic and illegal species to the United Kingdom.

As an afterthought, and a bit of a joke, John adds the abstract to a fourth paper speaking of the potential for alien life on one of the moons of Jupiter because of evidence of hydrothermal vent activity. John smirks at the last abstract. If anything will get Sherlock to respond, it will be that one, if only to scold the good doctor for such a ludicrous paper.

He posts the letter and hopes for the best, just as much as he does week after week.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

Sherlock watches with wide, stalking eyes. His cell has become splattered with blood and castaway – his own. Now, as a result, the various tissue deposits have attracted a few guests in the form of cockroaches. He stares as the small, twitching little legs scurry over the cold, stone floor, drawn out by the scent. His stomach growls loudly in protest of the wait, the sound echoing in the cell harshly, but Sherlock pays it no heed. He licks his lips in anticipation and strikes.

His movements are slow, clumsy, and pained, his battered joints grating against one another. For a dreadful, gut wrenching moment, the insect slips from Sherlock’s grasp. Sherlock slams his hand down again and snatches up his prize. The cockroach struggles and squirms between his fingers, but Sherlock holds tight.

Now that Sherlock has caught his prey, he considers the cockroach for a long moment, wondering if he has truly come so low. Then, the pangs of hunger from his stomach override any sort of embarrassment or nagging worry, and Sherlock stuffs the roach in his mouth before he can change his mind. The thing jumps in his mouth, almost hitting his gag reflex, but Sherlock chomps down on the insect before it can escape. Its innards explode in his mouth, juicy and foul, and Sherlock convulsively swallows before he can vomit.

A distant part of his mind whispers reassuringly that insects contain large proportions of protein relative to their body mass. It is the same part of his mind that desperately comforts himself after swallowing down male issue after a visit from Harrison’s clients that semen includes depositions of amino acids, citrate, fructose, and zinc, as well as protein content. However, that does little to mitigate the sorrowing fact that starvation has made eating cockroaches _necessary_ for survival, nor does it make the insect any more filling.

He spends the better part of the day hugging his gullet and rocking, desperately trying to keep from either crying or vomiting up the morsel.

xxx

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xxx

After months of revisions and editing to Sherlock’s study of postmortem sputum sampling as a forensic tool, Molly Hooper finally holds the letter she has been looking forward to in her hands. Sherlock’s study has been accepted for publication – under her name, naturally; no serious journal would accept anything connected with the notorious Sherlock Holmes.

She smiles and toasts herself with a soda. Molly tells herself as she sips that Sherlock would be happy. His intentions for the study had obviously been to better his own forensics. As Sherlock cannot work from prison, this is the next best thing; publication means that other detectives can benefit from this work. Although, if she is truly being honest with herself, Molly knows Sherlock would likely berate her for being so crass as to have his work published.

Molly enjoys her victory only briefly. All this time, she has been consumed with finishing and publishing Sherlock’s work. However, now, it is finished. She does not know what she will do with her spare time without the extra work. Molly spends her evening musing on the matter, and considering carefully what she can do with the large amount of time in her life freed up by the final letter of acceptance from the journal.

Later that night, it comes to her. She had spent years watching Sherlock work in the morgue. She arranged so many cadavers for his personal studies and stared in curious admiration from the windows above as Sherlock worked. She remembers so many of his experiments vividly that she can recreate them.

She knows exactly the right experiment to start with, and Molly spends the rest of her evening blushing furiously as she peruses the many adult novelty websites for a selection of crops and whips.

A distant part of Molly’s brain ponders in near childish delight what Sherlock might make of _that_.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

Sherlock does not think much of anything aside from his failure.

The more Sherlock stares at the pictures of Mrs. Hudson, the swifter he cycles between messy, cumbersome emotions. He oscillates wildly between rage and depression. He aches right down to the core when he thinks of what she may have suffered for his mistake. Then, he fumes at the helplessness of the woman, of the blissful ignorance she, John, and Greg possess if they have not come to steal him away from this torture, this pain, especially when he catches glimpse of the amputation sites on his hand and foot or the general scarred over quality of his body. Then, the grief and shame sneaks right back up on him for thinking such thoughts when he is the reason Mrs. Hudson was attacked.

Sherlock does not enjoy doing this to himself, but he has no choice. Now that he is so effectively crippled and boxed in, there is nothing else for him to do _but_ stare at those incriminating photos, the reminders of his own miserable failure.

The only other thing Sherlock has to do is rock. He does so, almost habitually. Whenever his mind wanders and drifts – which is frequently – and he comes back to himself, Sherlock finds he is rocking whenever physically capable of doing so, of course. He always stops himself, shocked and more than mildly unsettled by the action, but, inevitably, Sherlock finds himself rocking again and again as hugs himself with gnarled, knobby hands. A part of him thinks of horses and elephants in captivity, swaying back and forth in a stimulating and possibly self gratifying action. He tries to rationalize this away and file it as a perfectly natural response.

It does not make the realization that he is inexorably falling apart mentally as well as physically any better.

All at once, Sherlock comes to himself and to his situation, mindless of the time or the day. He is a ruined, pitiful wreck of a man. He has nothing left to his life, nothing save the grotesque promise to Moriarty. Even if Moriarty should change his mind one day and spare Sherlock – which he doubts – there is nothing left to him, nothing at all. Everything that had been him has been taken from him.

He curls up on the floor, feeling all too hollowed out inside and numb at the realization. There will be no life for him beyond this, if there is even a _beyond_ in this situation. Moriarty has crippled him, both physically and mentally. He will never work again, not in any sense of the word. He will never perform his experiments, never play the violin, never do any of the things that had once been so natural. There is nothing left for him beyond the four walls of his miserable little cell.

For a time, Sherlock struggles with the concept of a nothing beyond this before it makes all too much sense. There _is_ nothing beyond this. It is all too simple. He could laugh, but Sherlock can ill afford to waste the energy. Moriarty said nothing about Sherlock ending this arrangement prematurely in death. There is nothing in the cell to aid him in this final act, no weapons, no blades, no narcotics, nothing to ease Sherlock beyond this world; he shall have to use force.

Sherlock lifts his head from the floor and pauses. This is to be it, then. It is a sobering thought, suicide. However, Sherlock knows he is dead already. This is really more of a formality. He gives but the briefest of thoughts to John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson before battering his head repeatedly against the floor. It is the only means he has.

He never succeeds in achieving the sort of hemorrhaging and cranial trauma necessary to end his life. One of the guards from Moriarty’s payroll stops him by the fourth or fifth blow. The guard barges into the cell, grabbing Sherlock up and encircling him in broad, strong arms. Sherlock wriggles, desperate to finish it, but the guard holds him too tightly. In no time at all, Sherlock’s energy and fight wanes, leaving him dazed, exhausted, and concussed.

When Sherlock stills in his arms, the guard fishes a mobile from his pocket and dials a number. The phone rings and is answered by the guard, but Sherlock hardly hears the conversation. His own sobs and harsh breaths deafen the sound.

He does, however, hear Moriarty’s voice when the guard places him on speaker phone. _“I’m so disappointed, Sherlock. I thought you would have more fight in you. Further confirmation of just how ordinary you are.”_ Sherlock shivers at the tone, but the man continues darkly, _“Don’t do this again.”_

Sherlock shakes his head before realizing that Moriarty cannot see him. “I won’t.”

_“Do you want to pick this time?”_

“I can’t….”

Moriarty hangs up before Sherlock can say another word. The guard drops him to the ground and locks him in. Sherlock sobs himself to sleep and spends the next few days in an aching hell from an obvious concussion. The guards for once feed him a full meal, and Sherlock vomits horribly, unable to keep anything down. They laugh and mock him, reminding him that Moriarty will have news shortly.

When Moriarty finally does come for Sherlock a few days later, it is with a laptop. He opens it and connects to a secure website where a phone tap streams live. Sherlock frowns, but, in time, he comes to realize they are listening in on the emergency operator line, at a dispatch office.

_“Please…. please… I need help.”_

Sherlock blinks. He has not heard John’s voice in too long, but he could never forget it. John sounds pained, and it breaks Sherlock’s heart to hear it. He looks to Moriarty, but the criminal appears utterly bored by the whole thing.

_“What’s your name, sir?”_

_“Uh…. it’s John. John Watson.”_

_“Okay, John. Can you tell me what happened?”_

_“I’ve been hit….”_ His voice hitches, perhaps in pain. _“Hit by a car.”_

Sherlock winces at the thought of John sprawled on the side of an anonymous London street, bleeding and broken.

_“Can you tell me where you are?”_

John stutters, clearly struggling with discerning his whereabouts. He finally manages to blurt an address, but neither Sherlock nor the dispatcher can understand his mutterings. It is simply too incoherent and mumbled.

_“Sir, I’m going to trace your mobile. While I do that, keep talking to me. Can you tell me the nature of your injuries?”_

Moriarty does not allow Sherlock to hear anymore. He slams the laptop shut and simply glares for a moment. Sherlock cowers visibly; message received.

God, he can’t even kill himself successfully.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

John remembers very little of the actual accident, not even how it occurred. He recalls leaving the clinic at the end of his shift to walk home to the flat. Ever since Sherlock’s incarceration, John has enjoyed the peaceful stroll back home, especially after a particularly difficult shift. The only thing John remembers is a sudden, jarring agony erupting on his side while crossing the street before finding himself on the flat of his back. He vaguely recalls phoning for emergency assistance, and the ride to the A&E, but that is about it.

At the A&E, x-rays reveal that John has a broken left ankle and a mild concussion; while John’s leg is set in a thick, plaster cast, he listens to a young traffic officer who explains. It seems John is the victim of a humble hit-and-run. A cabbie ran a red light and struck John as he crossed one the street before fleeing the scene. Unfortunately for John and the police, the few witnesses to the accident did not catch the cab’s tag, nor did the surveillance cameras. There is nothing for the police to pursue, no one for John to hold accountable.

xxx

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xxx

Sherlock spends the night after Moriarty’s impromptu visit lingering in a state of perpetual terror. Every time his eyelids droop ever so slightly and sleep threatens to overtake him, the thought of John bleeding and broken on some anonymous London street flashes through his mind. He knows, logically, that his imagination is likely far worse than the reality of whatever has happened to John, but Sherlock cannot be certain. It is this uncertainty that is perhaps the worst thing for Sherlock. The only thing Sherlock can do is sit and rock, trying desperately not to think about the myriad of possibilities.

Sometime in the middle of what feels the next day, Moriarty visits with a manila envelope. Sherlock trembles at the thought of what horrors the envelope might contain, but he holds his tongue. He forces himself to hold himself prostrate, kneeling before Moriarty as a slave might before his master.

Moriarty finally addresses him with a cool dispassion, waving the envelope before him. “Now, I have something for you, but I’m not certain you truly want it. Not after what happened yesterday.”

Sherlock blinks, tears stinging at his eyes. He hangs his head, trying not to look up, not to see the smug satisfaction written so plainly on Moriarty’s elegantly carved features. His heart hammers in his chest, setting his ribs primed to explode.

“This,” Moriarty croons. “Is the trauma report of one Dr. John Watson.”

Sherlock holds his breath, daring to look up.

Moriarty grins madly from ear to ear. “I might… just might, be persuaded to give you this.” Sherlock licks his lips, suddenly desperately parched, but Moriarty merely continues without regard, chiding Sherlock as one might a child, “But, first, tell me you’re sorry.”

The words spill almost instantaneously from his lips, a dry, cracked gasp. “I’m sorry.” Moriarty cocks his head to the side, as though he has not heard, and Sherlock forces them out again. “I’m sorry.” As soon as the words slip from his mouth once more, Sherlock cannot stop them. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I…”

Moriarty shushes him with a perverse tenderness. “Shh, shhh. That’ll do, now.”

He chucks the envelope on the floor and leaves Sherlock in the cell. To Sherlock’s very great horror, the envelope is sealed firmly shut. He paws at the seams, but his fingers no longer have the fine dexterity to manipulate the thing. He cannot grip enough to tear, not even when he tries to rip it apart with his teeth. Sherlock struggles with the envelope for some time, but he cannot manage.

In the end, Sherlock crumples over the thing, sobbing gently to himself at his own failings.

Some time later, Harrison arrives to gloat over Sherlock. For the first time in ages, he demands Sherlock debase himself – _defile_ himself – for the contents of the envelope, obviously aroused by the pure, distilled suffering of the convict. Sherlock does. He has no other choice. When Sherlock swallows both his pride and Harrison’s issue, the guard laughs mockingly, strokes Sherlock’s tangled locks, and reads the A&E report.

Sherlock tries not to cry. He truly does. However, it is too hard to resist the urge to just bawl outright when he realizes just how much he has failed John. The man will be hobbled for the rest of his life, and it is all Sherlock’s fault for being such a miserably greedy cunt.

xxx

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xxx

In time, John’s leg heals, but the damage remains. What had once been a psychosomatic limp remains as a permanent ailment. The joint throbs and aches with the rain, locking up at times. He hobbles about, his movements ungainly and poorly coordinated. Eventually, John is reluctantly forced to retrieve his cane from storage. It hardly matters; John does not need the mobility to climb and jump from roof top to roof top as he had in Sherlock’s company.

Two more Christmases come and go, and, on that second New Year’s Eve, John finds himself wandering the streets of London in a daze shortly before midnight. It is hard to imagine that nearly three years have passed with Sherlock in jail, and, yet, he has yet to ever see London the same way. London is no longer a sleeping city to John Watson; it is a live, predatory thing, infested with all manner of people.

John finds himself pausing before graffiti and eyeing the curious jumble of shapes and colors for any signs of glaring neon yellow or iconic shapes that could herald a code. He watches passers by and ponders their destinations, their parcels, their clothes at the thoughts of their individual lives and circumstances as they rush to make parties or bar scenes before midnight. His manners, his gestures, John knows, mimic Sherlock’s, but not so much so as to be insulting.

When John stumbles across a young, party-going lady who is clearly too inebriated to continue on safely shortly after 1 AM, he sets her on a bench, holds her hair while she vomits in the streets, and demands her phone long enough to ring a friend. Then, he waits with her until a gaggle of ladies appear, swooning over her and thanking John. It is a simple, curious gesture, but it is something that warms John to know that this young creature will get home safely.

As John continues along his way, he notes the various homeless that inhabit the streets of London. A few of them recognize John from Sherlock’s homeless network. He pauses for each, checking on them as best he can in the dim light. John drops coins in the hats or tins of every beggar, giving them a warm nod.

Not long after, he encounters a group of drunkards stealing the meager possessions of an old, homeless man that John remembers from one of his adventures with Sherlock. The man struggles feebly to keep a hold of the bag from the drunks. He has next to nothing, but John knows that the few possessions the beggar has are dear enough not to squander on the drink. He chases off the drunks and returns the bag to the man, checking him over quickly to make sure the old man is alright.

Something stirs in John as he finishes helping the man, coming alive on the inside once more. He may not be able to get through to Sherlock through his letters, but, at least, he can still feel some semblance of a connection to that life through helping the people of London out and on the streets. John writes about his New Years adventures for Sherlock in his next letter, hoping that his new turn will help Sherlock as well through whatever it is the convict is going through alone.

xxx

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xxx

When Harrison’s boots thunder down the hall along with the footfall of another, Sherlock groans to himself and rolls onto his stomach. He is used to this, by now, but it is never bearable. It is horrid each and every time Harrison brings another client to Sherlock’s cell to use him, but Sherlock must. He cannot dare disobey any of Moriarty or the men under his command for fear of repercussions against Mrs. Hudson, John, or Lestrade. And, so, Sherlock forces himself to submit every time, no matter how it is killing him little by little.

Harrison must be making a fortune in favors and smuggled goods, Sherlock muses, granted the frequency of his visits. Convicts and guards in many prisons trade in a bustling black market economy. With the right commodity, any man can find himself king behind bars, so long as they are capable of controlling that commodity long enough. Either Harrison has Moriarty’s blessing, or Moriarty does not know about this. Either way, Harrison seems to maintain control of Sherlock for his many clients, whoring the once consulting detective out. Many who recognize Sherlock return again and again to punish him in their own ways, some of which Sherlock put behind bars. Harrison must be rolling in the spoils.

He is surprised then, when Harrison shuts the cell door behind his client, that this newcomer does not immediately pounce upon him as so many others do. Instead, the stranger draws a sharp breath. He stands a distance away before slowly, carefully closing the gap between them. Then, a timid hand graces Sherlock’s shoulder, and he flinches from the tender contact.

“Shit,” a voice breathes low and almost afraid, a voice Sherlock knows.

The distant, detective part of Sherlock uncoils for but a moment to place the voice. When he cannot, Sherlock rolls over and looks to the stranger. It is a younger face, a boy really and barely out of adolescence, yet it is the face of a man Sherlock knows. Unless he is hallucinating – which he has on occasion – this is a person Sherlock put in jail shortly before his rather public fall.

“Tucker Davis?” he croaks, unsure of his own voice.

The young man blinks in surprise and jumps back. “Holy shit!”

Sherlock has not the energy to move or care. Instead, he lies there in his misery and waits for the pale, lanky twenty eight year old to approach once more. It is not worth the effort anymore.

“You remember me?”

Sherlock nods slowly, his vocal chords raspy and uncomfortable with speech. He remembers Tucker Davis. He has thought of Tucker Davis along with every man and woman he assisted Lestrade in putting behind bars. Before Harrison’s business boom, Sherlock had mused on these people and run through their cases to make sure his evidence and methods had been air tight to keep them behind bars. Now, he only contemplates the men he placed behind bars in an overwhelming and all consuming fear of the torture they might dole out if they were introduced to Harrison’s little pet.

Tucker Davis was twenty two when his path crossed Sherlock’s. He and his girlfriend orchestrated a string of robberies together, targeting the homes of the rich for rare paintings, antiquities, and jewels. What Tucker Davis did not know was that his “girlfriend” had no interest in him. She had another lover who intended on helping her put Tucker Davis in the ground after a time so they could retire to some tropical island love-nest somewhere. They were plotting to stage a gas explosion at Davis’s flat. Sherlock cracked the case, stopped the murder in the very nick of time, and put all three in jail. Tucker Davis confessed and arranged to turn evidence against the others in their little ring. He was sentenced to ten years, while the others each received twenty and thirty year sentences. Ironically, Sherlock’s actions probably saved the idiot’s life. Tucker had _thanked_ him after the trial.

The man touches Sherlock’s shoulder again, and his touch burns. “Oh, god.” Tucker gags, sounding rather like he means to vomit. “Oh…. God… I didn’t think…. you’re… all messed up.”

Sherlock chuffs; it is the only sound he can manage. Anything else might prove too dangerous for either him or Tucker. The safest and smartest answer, Sherlock has finally learned from many painful lessons, is very often silence.

For a moment, it seems to suffice, but, then, Tucker utters those dangerous words. “Hang on, okay? I’ll get help.”

“No!” Sherlock nearly cries out, grinding out the word, snatching Tucker by the arm, and wincing from the sudden movement all at once.

“No?”

Sherlock shakes his head and coughs out, “No.” Tucker shakes his head in confusion, and Sherlock forces himself to speak more than two words for the first time in many months. “Not safe.” He closes his eyes and begs. “Please?”

“Mr. Holmes,” Tucker whispers, his voice cracked with fear. “You’re in bad shape. Please.” He waits for Sherlock to answer, but, when the once detective does not say anything, Tucker presses. “I’ve done some shit stuff, you know that, but I never hurt anyone. You know that. You know I can’t leave you like this.”

Sherlock knows. He remembers Tucker. The man had been duped by his so-called girlfriend. She had insisted she had cancer and needed money for treatment. He had gone along because he’d been too soft hearted and too sympathetic to allow her to suffer. Tucker had robbed houses, yes, but only when the home owners were out and only because he really and truly believed the money would be going to saving her life. Sherlock had scoffed at Tucker’s sentimentality.

Again, the man pleads, “Please let me help you.”

Sherlock gives a heavy, wracking sob as the tears well in his eyes. “Can’t help me.”

“Why not?” the young man presses, rubbing Sherlock’s arm gently. “Why can’t I help you?”

Sherlock sniffles, and, suddenly, it all falls out of his mouth in one, needy breath. “They work for him. All of them. Guards, doctors, all of them.”

Tucker chews his lips. It is clear he does not understand, but he does not seem to have any interest in risking Sherlock’s life. Instead, he nods slowly, as though considering the matter. Sherlock holds his breath. Tucker Davis never struck him as a wise man, not by a long shot, and certainly not an individual he would entrust anyone’s life with. And, now, to Sherlock’s very great dread, he has just put the life of everyone he has ever cared for in the hands of this childish simpleton.

“Okay, okay,” Tucker whispers gently, ghosting his fingers over Sherlock’s arm. “I won’t tell anyone.” Sherlock looks up, his vision blurred, and Tucker nods once more. “I promise.”

Sherlock cannot stop himself from crying once more. The tears fall so easily nowadays on him, sneaking up on him and taking the once proud man by force. Tucker sits awkwardly with him, just letting his hand rest on Sherlock’s bony shoulder. He neither presses Sherlock nor recoils away. He simply allows the detective to cry without reproach until Harrison’s bootsteps echo in the hall once more. Then, Tucker rises and fiddles with the drawstring to his orange pants, as though fixing himself post coupling.

They leave him alone once more.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

John visits the homeless often after dark. They begin to know him, and he, them. Before Sherlock, John might have never given a second glance to them, but, now, John knows them each, by face and by story if not by name. He often saves old clothes for them and helps them get medical treatment. He gets a few into shelters, but, most of them seem to prefer the streets. John becomes a guardian angel of sorts to them, patrolling in the night and checking in on them.

One of the younger travelers confesses that this is how Sherlock’s homeless network began, and John flushes. He says it as though John is Sherlock’s former lover, seeking to relive the romance. John assures him this is not the case.

They don’t understand.

Greg does; John knows that now. On this very night, Greg brought home a cold case file and the two pondered over it through dinner. Before dessert, the two easily resolved the case after noticing key evidence that had been accidentally overlooked in a manner that would have enraged Sherlock. A seeming murder had actually been an accident. Now, while John wanders the streets, he knows Greg is back at the office, scouring old cold cases for the same sort of foolish mistakes.

They don’t understand before John is not looking for romance, and neither is Greg. They are simply searching for some hint of what they had once been. They are only trying to put their lives back together after being so effectively ripped apart. As John thinks on this, he frowns. If John and Greg struggle so to reclaim their lives on the outside, he cannot imagine what his letters must be doing to Sherlock in jail.

xxx

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xxx

Just when Sherlock thought he could not sink any lower, Moriarty proves that there are further depths to desperation and sorrow than the once great consulting detective ever thought possible.

This visit is like so many others. It involves Moriarty, a few of the prison guards, and the standard issued clubs of the officers. For some time, they pummel him without mercy or any form of recourse. They batter his legs, arms, and abdomen until his entire body is aflame with fresh aches and bruises blooming already. His stomach hurts and throbs, and Sherlock wonders amid the daze of his agony if, perhaps, something has ruptured within him – possibly the soft tissue of an organ like the spleen, liver, or intestines. Such a wound would surely kill a man, but it would be in the worst way – the slow, agonizing death of sepsis.

Afterwards, Moriarty gives pause, circling slowly as a raptor on the wing. Sherlock knows it is not a mercy, but he accepts it as readily as one. It is Moriarty’s all too theatrical nature to craft these soft, malleable moments before something impossibly awful or grotesque. The contrast is the key, and it makes whatever is to come so much worse for Sherlock. Sherlock tries not to muse on the matter and focuses instead on gathering his own, meager wits.

In time, Moriarty stops before Sherlock. In another life, Sherlock might have sneered, glared, or snapped with a cutting comment. Now, all he can do is lift his gaze as he awaits whatever sick game Moriarty has planned.

When Moriarty speaks, it is to purr, “I’m bored.”

Sherlock is too tired to roll his eyes or to snap as he wishes. Instead, all he can do is close his eyes. Anything else hurts too much to even think about.

“How about we play a little game?” Moriarty offers strangely. “Hm? Just like old times?” Sherlock blinks, stupidly, but, to his surprise, Moriarty produces a chessboard with a flourish and announces, “Well, not exactly like old times. No bombs or snipers. But just you and me.”

Sherlock watches curiously as Moriarty sets the little plastic pieces upon the board and turns the white side before the crippled man. He hasn’t the strength to offer any sort of true denial, but Sherlock has enough in him to swat his hand across the board. The plastic pieces fly across the room, scattering with an oddly satisfying clatter.

“Oh, now that wasn’t too nice, was it?” Moriarty chastises playfully, toying with Sherlock mercilessly. “And I was going to suggest we make a friendly wager.”

Sherlock’s gaze snaps up to the man before him. There are no “friendly” wagers in Moriarty’s world, least of all where Sherlock is concerned. This is another of the consulting criminal’s games, which Sherlock knows lead to dire consequences regardless of the play.

“The stakes?” Sherlock grunts out, forcing the words through his teeth.

Moriarty shrugs, but it is a practiced, choreographed motion. “I thought, perhaps, I’d give you something nice if you won.” He gestures to the door, and a guard enters carrying a tray with something delicious smelling. “I thought a lovely meal prepared by my personal chef just for you.”

Sherlock’s stomach growls and roils almost painfully at the thought. He has not been fed properly in days, or possibly weeks. His tummy aches at the pleasant scent of what smells like a delectable dish. A hot meal is just too tempting for words, and his every thought coalesces into an arrow of need and want directed at the plain, silver tray as the guard sets it down on the floor beside Moriarty. Sherlock almost drools at the sight of a braised chicken set upon a bed of roasted vegetables delicately placed on a plate of fine, white china rimmed in gold. It is the richest thing Sherlock has set eyes upon since before his arrest.

“Unless you don’t want it,” Moriarty sings, raising his foot towards the plate.

Sherlock moves and speaks with animalistic instinct, crying out, “No!”

Moriarty smirks all too devilishly. “Oh, then, perhaps you would like to play?”

The convict cringes, balling up on himself. He knows this is a trap. Moriarty is cunning and too clever to allow Sherlock any sort of leverage in these games of theirs, yet Sherlock cannot help but risk it. The food smells too good to deny it. He cannot bring himself to answer, but Sherlock manages to nod his head.

“Oh, goody!” Moriarty chirps. “It’s been too long since we’ve played.” He levels a serious gaze upon Sherlock and announces, “If you win, you get this gourmet dinner. If I win…. well, we can talk about that later.”

Moriarty dutifully sets the chessboard again, sets out a mat, and sits across from Sherlock on the cold, stone floor. He turns the board so that the white ranks stand at attention before Sherlock and bridges his hands together. Sherlock licks his lips and stares at the perfectly uniform pieces before him, the plastic all too clear and harsh against the filth of his cell. It takes him an embarrassingly long moment to recall that – as the white – tradition demands he make the first move.

After that, his arm shakes dreadfully as he reaches to nudge a pawn forward. Every muscle in his arm screams from the effort, while the joints grind painfully together. However, in time, Sherlock makes his move and slowly returns his arm to the floor. Moriarty grins madly and immediately slams an ebony knight ahead; Sherlock flinches at the sudden motion and grimaces at the thought of having to make another move so quickly after the first.

The game is long and tiring for Sherlock. He has not used his mind for anything really in some time. It takes effort – _real_ effort – to even dream of keeping up with Moriarty. Every move is agonizing to his limbs and utterly shameful when his fingers refuse to close properly about the pieces – forcing him to press both hands about a piece to move it. Moriarty is swift, efficient, and perfectly capable physically and mentally to play, while Sherlock struggles to even present a marked defense. It hurts him to realize he cannot even play a simple game of chess anymore, even if a tiny kernel of his mind whispers reassuringly that it is most likely just the result of sleep deprivation, psychological trauma, malnutrition, and dehydration all working against him. In no time at all, nearly a full battalion of white pieces stands at Moriarty’s side of the board, and Sherlock has barely kept himself afloat.

Then, the worst does happen. Moriarty does not even need to say the word; Sherlock sees it written in his smug expression and the placement of the black queen. Checkmate. He crumbles inwardly while Moriarty beams. In his resignation, the once great detective reaches out and knocks over his king with a heavy sigh.

Moriarty silently collects the chess pieces, the board, and the tray. Sherlock brings his arms in tightly about himself as the consulting criminal removes the food from his sight. One might think it would make bearing the loss easier to not have to smell or see the meal, but actually watching Moriarty do this is a crushing blow. He bites his lip to keep from crying or doing anything else as horribly demeaning in Moriarty’s presence. When the criminal returns, Sherlock is hugging himself so tightly to keep from screaming out that there are faint bits of blood where his fingernails dig into his pale, thin skin.

“I realize we did not discuss the terms of your loss, but that’s alright,” Moriarty practically hums happily.

Two burly guards stomp into the cell. Sherlock tries desperately to ball up protectively from them, but he cannot. He is tired of fighting, tired of these games. He is just tired of everything. When they grab him, something breaks in Sherlock. He floods with terror and cries out when the guards pry him from his protective little ball and splay him out on the floor. They spread him out and hold him still so that Sherlock can only quiver with fear in their grasp.

Moriarty kneels beside him in a quick, graceful motion, producing a knife from nowhere in his suit. Sherlock blinks in horror, transfixed by the gleaming blade. Moriarty drags the edge along Sherlock’s ribcage, and the man feels his heart hammering violently in his chest beneath the knife.

“Now, as you have so very little to offer to me, I shall have to pick something to take.”

Sherlock clenches his teeth once more, as Moriarty brings the knife up. The edge of the blade skims up his neck, across vulnerable veins. Sherlock dare not move, for fear of slicing himself upon the thing, but he can hardly keep himself composed as he once did. Moriarty smiles broadly as the convict beneath him trembles as he brings the knife over Sherlock’s sunken cheeks.

Unbidden, the word slips from Sherlock’s mouth. “Please….”

Moriarty pauses, blinking at the word; then, he brings the flashing metal to just beneath Sherlock’s eye, pointing the tip there. “Excuse me?”

A tear falls down Sherlock’s face – the first he has ever shed in Moriarty’s presence. “Please don’t….”

“You lost. I demand payment,” Moriarty presses further, digging the tip of the blade into Sherlock’s skin enough to draw a prick of blood just below Sherlock’s eye. “And, seeing as this is the limit of your wealth….”

“Please, no!” Sherlock screams out, his entire body vibrating with fear.

“I’ll trade, then,” Moriarty offers as he twists the tip of the knife ever so slightly, enough to emphasize. “You tell me which one of your friends I can take payment from, and I’ll leave you alone.”

It is a terrible offer, but, for the first time, Sherlock has not the strength to deny it as he might otherwise. He has hardly the will to say anything. Instead, Sherlock sweats beneath the blade, quivering.

When Sherlock does manage to speak, it is only to beg, “Please….”

“Tell me which one,” Moriarty croons warmly.

The consulting criminal applies just a bit more force, and it is enough to make Sherlock actually feel the tip pressing at the base of the orbit. One false move and that finely honed tip will drop right into his eye, slicing through the delicate flesh. Sherlock jerks his head back, but one of the guards grabs him and holds him still.

“Please, don’t!”

Moriarty asks again, “Which one? The officer, the doctor, or the old lady?” When Sherlock cannot bring himself to answer, Moriarty bellows right in his face, “Tell me who, or I’m taking an eye!”

Tears pour down Sherlock’s cheeks, but he cannot do it. He can only shake his head and whimper barely intelligible words. He is beyond the reason with which Sherlock once clothed himself so steadfastly. There is nothing left to his reserve, his will.

Moriarty gives a token shake of his head. “You leave me no choice, then.”

He draws the blade up and aims the tip right for Sherlock’s eye, but, as Moriarty brings the knife down, Sherlock cannot hold himself anymore. He heart shatters apart in an instant.

Then, he snaps, “LESTRADE!”

Moriarty freezes and gives a strange, quizzical expression. “Beg pardon?”

“Lestrade!” Sherlock sobs once more, shaking his head. “Do it to Lestrade.”

Moriarty nods faintly. “Alright.”

Sherlock is hardly consciously aware of Moriarty and his thugs letting go and walking away until they have nearly left; then, he comes back to himself in a rush. “No, wait!”

However, it is too late; the damage is done. For all his lofty morals and impenetrable reason, Sherlock Holmes has just condemned a man to suffer in his stead. It is perhaps the cruelest thing Moriarty could do to him. Sherlock feels himself falling apart inwardly, shattering and collapsing under the weight of his own guilt. He cries, howling wordlessly for hours on end until his voice fails him.

xxx

xxxxx 

xxx

The worst and perhaps most tortuous thing about Moriarty’s scheme is that Sherlock has no way to know that he does precisely nothing to Lestrade. Instead, Sherlock lives in constant fear and sorrow at the thought of what might happen to his friend. His imagination is worse than anything Moriarty can offer, and Sherlock knows this. It does not stop his thoughts, his dreams, his every terror.

When the guards bring his food, Sherlock can barely bring himself to lip at it. He spends days without moving, hardly even daring to breathe. A part of him has died, and there is nothing Sherlock can do to dredge himself up from this all consuming misery.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

Nothing ill does befall Greg. In truth, Greg Lestrade begins to make something of a name of himself on the force with his cold cases. Enough of them cross his desk daily for filing. He takes the time to carefully peruse the evidence and documentation for anything glaringly missed. Many of the older cases merely require revisiting to use newer technologies or DNA testing to yield a conviction or, at the very least, a productive line of inquiry. Greg works with care, covering his bases and making sure his only involvement is requesting the evidence be properly processed. So long as Greg does not directly handle the evidence, no defense attorney can question his involvement in the investigation with any credibility.

When stumped, truly stuck, Greg sits at his desk in the flat and stares at the skull. He questions himself over and over again, mulling over the evidence. Greg asks himself what Sherlock would do. Occasionally, an epiphany strikes while he ponders with the vacant, dried skull.

He keeps his head down for several months, working quietly on the cold case files until accidentally attracting the notice of someone higher up. Much to Greg’s chagrin, one morning, there is a memo from the office of the detective inspector ordering his presence at a meeting with the detective inspector. Greg winces at the thought and reviews the last several cases. He has been careful and scrupulous, overly so, in order to ensure convictions of guilty parties or pardons of innocents. Nothing nags at his conscience, and nothing seems amiss in any of his files.

At the preset time, Greg presents himself to the detective inspector and blanches in surprise. A new detective inspector resides in his office, but a familiar face nevertheless. Sally Donovan. Her name advertises her new position. Greg swallows, half expecting to be chewed out for the sake of a chewing-out, but Sally welcomes him warmly, gesturing for him to sit across from her.

They speak in meaningless drivel for a few moments. She inquires about his wife and expresses the requisite amount of sympathy for his divorce. He asks of Anderson and hums appreciatively when she mentions an anniversary coming up in the next month.

Finally, when the two officers have run short of platitudes and pleasantries, Donovan draws a deep breath. “I’ll level with you. I don’t appreciate you going behind my back, but I can’t argue with results. I do appreciate the work you’ve done.”

“Thanks.” He is not sure what else to say.

Donovan nods and grows stern. “But I don’t want you ending up like the Freak. Just keep me in the loop and keep to protocol.”

Greg feels a sigh of relief escape him like no other; he is safe, for now.

xxx

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xxx

Weeks or possibly months slip by for Sherlock without any concept of time. It matters not to him, not anymore. Nothing seems to hold any import to the man. He allows the time to fall away, along with the flesh from his body. He can hardly eat or drink anymore. He cannot bring himself to move even an inch. Whole days pass with barely a twitch of his muscles save to roll over for Harrison’s clients and allow them to use him while he stares at the dirtied, yellowing photographs of Mrs. Hudson.

Then, one day, out of the blue, Tucker Davis is there at his side, snapping him from the awful black fugue that has engulfed him so thoroughly. “Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock closes his eyes slowly, feeling the lids stick uncomfortably with the dryness of his eyes. Hallucinations are a known side affect of any of the things Sherlock has experienced through his incarceration. Cranial trauma. Starvation and malnutrition. Sleep deprivation. Dehydration. Psychological trauma. Any of it can cause noted visual and auditory hallucinations, so Sherlock knows better than to immediately trust a familiar face in his dark mood.

Then, a hand touches his shoulder, and a fearful voice asks again, “Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock jerks – an involuntary reaction. “M’fine.”

“It’s me, Tucker.”

Sherlock looks up, a fleeting ghost of his former self rising up to snark, “Who else?”

Tucker lets out an audible sigh. “Oh, God. You scared me there.”

They sit for a moment, long and pregnant before Sherlock finally manages to mutter, “What’r you doin’ here?”

Tucker blushes furiously, self conscious, it seems. “I…. I had to check on you.”

Sherlock is so taken back by Tucker’s honesty and seeming compassion that he falls apart all over again.

xxx

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xxx

Somehow, Tucker Davis surprises Sherlock by managing to arrange a few more visits with him nestled between other clients and Moriarty-time several weeks after the Lestrade incident. Harrison practically purrs when he opens the door for the young convict each time. Tucker blushes furiously, his cheeks flaring a raging scarlet, which only widens the sick grin on Harrison’s face. Harrison assumes it is because Tucker is taken with Sherlock, or at least taken with the notion of having a bit of fun at the detective’s expense. Yet, each time, Tucker keeps his touch strictly platonic, keeping his tone soft and attempting to comfort the man. For his part, Sherlock struggles inwardly not to appear as pleased as he is to spy one friendly face in all this, to hear some small snippets of human dialogue and share an at least mildly meaningful connection.

When Harrison closes and locks the cell door behind Tucker, he falls to his knees at Sherlock’s side and shakes his head at the sight of him further battled and covered with human issue – both his and that of his clients. “God, you look worse.”

“S’fine,” Sherlock grunts.

Tucker bites his lip, a nervous habit. “I had to tell you. I’ve got a meeting with the parole board in a few weeks.”

Sherlock shakes his head and curls away from him, exhausted from the simple motion. “Good for you.”

Tucker touches Sherlock’s shoulder lightly, as though afraid to break him. “I’m going to get paroled, I know it.”

Sherlock blinks and rolls to face Tucker. “What?”

“I know I’m getting paroled,” the younger man insists. “I’ve been on my best behavior. I’ve never been on report. I’ve done my classes. Everything.” He squeezes Sherlock’s shoulder lightly, reassuringly. “I’m getting paroled.”

“Ok,” Sherlock whispers with a shaky nod.

Tucker beams at the injured man. “I never forgot how you helped me out.” Sherlock scoffs at the notion, but the young man insists. “I know I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for you. I’m gonna get you out of this when I get out.”

Sherlock whimpers and shivers at the thought. He wants to be excited, to be happy. Sherlock wants to hope like other people do, but he cannot. Sherlock will never be free, not from this, not ever, not so long as he wishes his friends to live.

“No, no,” Sherlock whispers, shaking his head.

“Shh….” Tucker breathes. “I know you had a lot of police friends. Just tell me who to talk to.”

Sherlock thinks for a moment. Not Lestrade. Moriarty will be watching Lestrade. Aside from him, most everyone on the Met hates Sherlock to his knowledge, or at least considers him to be a con artist of exceptional skill. No one is going to trust anything a parolee says for his sake. There is no one on the force Sherlock can really trust to save him.

Then, for perhaps no reason, he blurts out a name. “Sally. Sally Donovan.” He is not sure what prompts him to name the woman, but he does and then admits, “But, she won’t believe you.”

Tucker tenses abruptly, cocking his head to the side to listen. Sherlock shivers at it and listens. Boot steps echo in the corridor outside, distant but closing. The sound heralds Harrison’s return. Tucker takes a quick moment to rip off his own shirt and lean over Sherlock, putting his face so close to Sherlock’s bare neck that he feels hot puffs of breath upon his skin. From any one behind Tucker’s shoulders, it would look like snogging and nothing more. The kid might be more intelligent than he looks.

“Five minutes, lovebirds,” Harrison taunts from the hall.

Tucker drops his voice to but the barest of whispers. “Then, tell me how to make her believe.”

xxx

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xxx

Greg makes perhaps the worst mistake possible by solving the case of a rather shocking premature death of a celebrity. A pop idol had been found dead in her London flat after an apparent drug overdose. Something had not felt right to Sherlock, and Greg had dug up the case out of curiosity. It had not taken much to clear things up with Sherlock’s mindfully sharp remarks cutting into him at every step. In no time flat, Greg has pegged the young lady’s manager as a culprit in her murder.

The case thrusts Greg back into the public eye, and it is a disconcerting, uncomfortable feeling. He thinks nothing of it except for a bit the modest disquiet after the first few articles hit, plastering his face across the papers. Then, the first tabloid article strikes, posting his face all over the newsstands. It is hardly flattering, and Greg ducks whenever he passes anyone with the papers.

After that, someone puts two and two together. The next article in the tabloids regards his living situation, insinuating that Greg and John are a couple. John seems understanding when Greg apologizes profusely, but both act sheepishly around one another for the better part of two days. A part of Greg ponders whether this is how John acted when the tabloids offered the same speculation regarding John and Sherlock.

Eventually, the story dies once more, and Greg and John can both breathe a sigh of relief and exchange a good hearty chuckle at the situation. At least, that is what they say until the next high-profile case hits the newsstands.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

A painfully long stretch passes for Sherlock in his misery until, one day, he realizes Tucker is never coming back. His heart shatters at the thought of his hopes so easily dashed to pieces. He is never getting free from this hell. The rest of his life will be spent between Harrison whoring him to the other inmates and Moriarty beating him mercilessly.

In truth, he realizes this is probably for the best. His right leg is crippled permanently. His left ankle is so malformed from a poorly healed break that it cannot bear his weight either. His hands are mangled beyond use. His body has become emaciated and fragile from starvation. Various blows to the head and malnutrition have left him with crap night vision. Sores, bruises, and scars litter his body from the abuse. He is jumpy and skittish, shying into his corner around the toilet whenever a person even so much as walks past his cell, panicking to the point of tears. And the tears? God, he is a pathetic wretch, crying whenever his body can spare the moisture.

Sherlock cries for what feels like the better part of a day in his dank hell to realize this. No, it is better this way, for what life can there be for him outside?

xxx

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xxx

It is mid-March when Detective Inspector Sally Donovan is contacted by Tucker Davis. She does not recognize the name, and, so, the inspector tries to push him off on another of her staff. Davis refuses. He insists that he must be seen by her and no one else. She tries to dodge, but Davis will not relent. Eventually, Donovan concedes and schedules an appointment for a Monday morning at 10 sharp.

When he comes in, a part of Donovan tugs oddly at the back of her mind. She vaguely recognizes the young man now that she has seen his drawn face and hazel eyes, but the inspector cannot place the situation. She greets him cordially and takes him to her office, closing the door behind him. As she does, Donovan hopes inwardly that this won’t take long; she tells him this, reminding him of her busy schedule.

Tucker Davis insists she needs to hear this, and, once he has said everything, Donovan wants to be sick.

xxx

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xxx

Something is amiss. Sherlock knows this because Harrison has stopped visiting him, stopped bringing his customers to Sherlock’s cell. He is grateful for the reprieve but simultaneously terrified by it. Patterns are good. Breaking patterns are bad. Breaking patterns means something is wrong. Perhaps he did something; perhaps he has said something wrong.

Sherlock curls up in his loneliness of the cell and prays that he has not done something irreparable.

Then, one day, Moriarty comes to him. He stands just outside the cell as several guards come in and douse the cell with bleach. It teases Sherlock’s nose hairs and curdles his meager stomach contents. They wash down everything. A distant part of Sherlock’s mind realizes they are destroying evidence. He shudders and hugs himself, hoping madly that Moriarty has not dispatched of his friends, his family.

After the men finish, Moriarty strolls in, holding his own white canister of bleach. He crouches down over Sherlock, and the fallen detective cringes deeper into his corner. Moriarty shushes him gently, mockingly so.

“You should have told me about that moron’s side business,” Moriarty says with a slow shake of his head. “I never meant for that ugliness to happen, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shivers, perhaps from fear perhaps from a cold chill against his naked body. “Yeah…. sure.”

“No, really,” Moriarty insists almost painfully politely. “I meant for this to be a present for me and no one else. I’m a bit greedy like that, you see.” He sobers oddly, pressing his palms together before his chin. “But, now, that idiot is costing us our time together.”

“I don’t….” Sherlock shifts, trying to move himself further from Moriarty if possible, and grunting in the process in pain from a shattered lower arm and dislocated shoulder inflicted earlier in the week. “I don’t understand…”

Moriarty laughs. “Of course you do, Sherlock. Don’t lie to me. You know it doesn’t become you.”

Sherlock wants to correct him, wants to be right. However, that would admit that, for once in his life, he does not understand. While it is the truth, Sherlock is loath to admit it to Moriarty of all people.

“Your little bird has sung, and it means our time has come to an end.” He pats Sherlock on the shoulder, right where Tucker would touch him to reassure him, either a calculated blow or pure coincidence. “I really have enjoyed our time together.” He sighs nostalgically. “Alas, all good things must come to an end, and it’s not as if you pose a serious threat to me anymore, or ever will again. I’m sure you understand.”

Moriarty rises and dumps the contents of the bleach bottle over Sherlock and in his eyes.

xxx

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xxx

To Detective Inspector Sally Donovan’s growing irritation, acting upon the tip from Tucker Davis takes weeks of coordination with Internal Affairs and various organizations. Internal Affairs takes their bloody time with everything. She tries to understand to keep herself mindful of the fact that they will have to essentially shut down the Freak’s prison in one swoop and arrest all of the staff pending a serious investigation. A temporary staff will have to be introduced, and several inmates may have to be transferred depending upon what they find behind closed doors.

After five weeks of planning, Internal Affairs and select team of officers hand picked by Donovan take the prison by storm. The guards and other staff complacently surrender, all smiles and assurances of innocence. Donovan wants to personally beat each of them with a crowbar. If what Davis has said is true, then they are all on the payroll of a criminal mastermind she now knows might very well be real and not a figment of the Freak’s imagination.

The prison is locked down with the staff is taken into custody for questioning. A temporary staff is swiftly ushered into their place. In no time, the prison is under the control of Internal Affairs.

Then, and only then, can Donovan bring herself to ask, “Where is Sherlock Holmes?”

The temporary staff takes their time and run carefully through the roster of inmates. Each convict is identified by the photographs in their file and verified. The process takes hours to ensure that each convict is accounted for. In the end, the staff finds that they are indeed one prisoner short; Sherlock Holmes.

Donovan feels her heart sink. During those last, fateful days of Sherlock’s freedom, she had been among the most vocal against him. She had been one of the major witnesses against him in court. Now, regret rears its ugly head along with the deepening suspicion that she has been wrong all these years.

In time, they find a wing of unused solitary cells. The prison records suggest no occupants, but, when one of the officers checks, he hears the sound of labored, raspy breaths. The unfamiliar sergeant from Internal Affairs radios for assistance, and Donovan runs in her heels to his call. She and several officers find themselves standing at the entry to one of the solitary units where the sergeant stands coughing and gagging against a vile, repulsive stench.

Donovan’s blood runs cold in her veins. She takes a single step forward, and the rancid odor nearly knocks her over. It is the stink of human suffering, of blood, shit, piss and fear. It is the stench of tissue necrosis. It is the chemical burn of raw bleach. The awful miasma hangs over the threshold and serves as an almost physical barrier against the officers who mean to enter.

She peers into the dark of the cell. At first, the Detective Inspector spies nothing, but, then, as her eyes adjust to the shadow, she spies something. In the corner of the cell, a shuddering, pale form lies curled up. As she watches, it twitches slightly and balls up tighter about the base of the toilet.

“Freak?” Donovan greets instinctively before mentally chastised and correcting herself. “Holmes?”

The figure on the floor merely flinches, and a broken sob escapes it. She winces. Something utterly awful has happened to make the Freak cry, something unbearable. As she stares, Donovan spots the many injuries, the bruises, cuts, scars and malformed limbs. Shame wells up in Donovan, fresh and staggering.

“I need a medic, now!”

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

It takes nearly an hour to extract the miserable wretch that is Sherlock Holmes from his cell and ferry him to a waiting ambulance. Most of that time is spent simply trying to convince Sherlock to release his grip of the toilet and uncurl enough for the EMTs to get a decent look at his damaged body and assess the situation. When they do, Sherlock’s hands snap up to his ears and clamp down hard enough to white his knuckles. Donovan tries not to be horrified by the sight of the naked, skeletal and broken man shaking violently against human contact and speech. They try to get him to stand, but, as soon as Sherlock is vertical, his legs crumple uselessly beneath him. Eventually, the EMTs are forced to help Sherlock onto a stretcher and carry him out. As soon as the straps cross his body and buckle down, the panic attack slams down on Sherlock, stealing his breath away as the medics drop a woolen blanket over him.

Donovan follows them and climbs into the ambulance after them. One of the EMTs opens his mouth to balk at her, but, under one cold, dead stare from her, all of the argument flees from his face. Detective Inspector Sally Donovan takes no shit from anyone. She clambers aboard and takes her place seated to the side, just out of the way for the medics to do their work but close enough for comfort’s sake.

Sherlock moans between hyperventilating gasps as they work on him, as strange hands touch him to check his vitals. He tries to roll away, but the safety straps hold him firmly on his back. Unable to do much more, Sherlock turns his head away, crushing his far ear into the mat beneath him and wincing as he does, scrunching his face into a contorted mess.

A part of her breaks inwardly to see the Freak this way. The Freak had been aloof, confident, clean, sharply dressed, impeccably groomed, and, above all, unrelentingly capable. He had been imposing and almost frightening in his conviction. This man is a trembling, filthy wreck. His eyes dart about wildly, crossing the closed vehicle cabin but not tracking properly. He struggles for breath, panicking wildly in a way Donovan could never picture the Freak doing. His hair is long, greasy and matted. His beard is equally shaggy and unkempt. He had been thin in the past, but, now, the Freak looks so light that a breath of wind would blow him a way. He is painful to look at, but she cannot take her eyes away.

Sally – not Inspector Donovan, but the woman beneath that – feels her hand move of its own accord. She reaches out and finds Sherlock’s bony, brittle and misshapen hand. Sally takes it in hers, trying to be gentle, but, as soon as her fingers curl about his, Sherlock’s grip clamps down on her. It is not a strong grip, but, judging by the strain to the man’s stringy muscles and the quivering of his arms, the desperate clenching is all the force a man as wasted as Holmes can offer.

She holds his hand the entire way to St. Mary’s, until they are separated at the entrance to the A&E and Sherlock is whisked away to a trauma room. She stands there, holding her breath for a moment before marveling at that. Something both miraculous and tragic has happened if she is holding her breath for the Freak of all people.

Before the thought can disturb her any further, Donovan messages Lestrade.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

_Heads up – I.A. just pulled Holmes from his cage._

Irene Adler blinks at the text for a moment. While her travels have taken the woman further and further from the man of her interest and deeper into mainland Europe, he has never been far from her heart or mind. She has maintained a contact in the Met – a former client who rather enjoyed savoring a fine meal over polite conversation before a sound caning and tender aftercare. He has kept a keen ear for any news on Sherlock for her, a meager indulgence Irene allows herself. This is the first she has heard of Sherlock since her contact texted about rumors circulating over his incarceration.

Nimbly, Irene types a swift message back. _And how is my pet?_

_Bad._

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

The extraction and subsequent ride to the A&E is nothing short of exhausting misery for Sherlock. He has spent years now in mostly silent isolation broken only be the visits from at most three people at any given time, and those occasions were only met with violence. There are too many people now, too much movement and sound, and it _hurts_. The sounds are deafening and chaotic, as orders are barked about him, sending Sherlock cringing.

A distant part of his brain, the last lingering kernel of his calculating, deducing mind muses that this is likely the result of a Pavlovian response built upon countless torture sessions through his incarceration. However, the rest of his mind and body remains trapped by a complex symphony of chemical reactions. He cannot breathe through it all, can hardly think rationally. His chest aches and head swims from the deep, unsatisfying gasps of air, while his heart pounds and nerves sing. Now free from the confining straps, he clutches the woolen emergency blanket like a safety line, while simultaneously drifting further and further from coherent thought.

The sounds of the people about him are deafening and chaotic, especially now that he can hardly see. Since the bleach, Sherlock can only claim minimal to moderate light penetration as his vision, and little else more. He cannot see his would be saviors, cannot track their movements or the implements in their hands. He cannot galvanize himself against hands that intend to help not harass. It only gets worse when, after the dizzying and near sickening trip across town and through the A&E to the trauma suite, the touching only increases. His body reacts the only way it can so drenched in adrenaline and so long starved from the sort of sensory input that might allow him to better cope.

When his faint trembles turn to violent, near convulsive shudders, few voices catch his ear with laughable, meaningless drivel intending to console him. He knows it is a trained response on their part, coddling and attempting to still their patient enough to treat them. It is absolutely awful.

A well meaning hand pries the blanket from Sherlock’s clutches to expose his injuries for tending, and that sends him inexplicably over the edge. A blind, animal like panic snatches him. He flings himself from the spongy gurney mat. His legs fold uselessly beneath him, but Sherlock could care less. He crashes painfully to the ground, but the landing is nothing compared to the agonies he has suffered over the years. Sherlock picks a direction and drags himself across the cold, tiled floor until he bumps into a corner and presses himself deeply against the wall. It is there, in that corner, that the world blinks out for a moment, leaving him alone and adrift in an all-consuming terror.

When Sherlock comes back to himself, the first thing to penetrate his fear addled mind is a low keening, a pitiful whimpering and begging in small, abortive and inhuman sounds. He does not understand. It takes Sherlock a long, shameful moment to realize that the pathetic sniveling is emanating from him. The second thing to strike him is the meager bit of warmth spreading on his thighs, and Sherlock’s stomach turns to realize he has pissed himself like a dog. Further examination of his position yield curious results. He has positioned himself as deep into the corner as possible, putting his bare back to the room and curling his head down, protectively over his abdomen. His arms crisscross defensively over his skull and matted hair, like a child avoiding a spanking. Christ, has he truly sunk so low?

_‘Yes,’_ Moriarty’s voice croons from the back of his mind, and the tears fall freely once more at the thought.

A voice, delicate and female, speaks to him from a distance but at the same height – a doctor or nurse crouching at his level. “Are you with us, now?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but his words fail him. The fear still holds him, gripping tight about him. He settles for nodding, a shaky bob of his head as he struggles to catch his breath. A hand brushes his shoulder from nowhere, and he gasps – honestly gasps – at the lightest of touches. The hand falls away.

“We just want to help you,” the woman continues gently, reassuringly.

Sherlock shakes his head, still unable to form coherent words. Unbidden, tears spill down his cheeks. He marvels briefly at the sensation, the warmth of the liquid and the chill at the edges, wonders at his ability to shed tears after all this time. He swallows, but it does nothing to settle his nerves.

“I know it hurts. I know. We just want to help you, but you’ve got to calm down,” the woman instructs. “Breathe slowly and deeply. Focus on your breathing. In and out. Nice and slow.”

He tries. Oh, God, he tries, but Sherlock cannot get a grip on himself. His cheeks burn with shame, and his body tingles from the surge of fear. He listens as the stranger guides his breaths, but Sherlock cannot stem the tide of terror, cannot slow his respiration or heart rate no matter what the woman attempts.

In time, the woman seems to understand and reasons, “Okay, okay. I know this is hard for you, but we’re going to get through this and take care of you, yeah?” Sherlock gives a weary nod of his head, and she asks softly, hesitantly, “Can you look at me?”

Sherlock uncovers his head enough to turn to her and fix his unseeing eyes in as much of her direction as Sherlock can approximate.

“Oh….” The woman sounds apologetic and more than mildly surprised. “Can you see?” He shakes his head and tucks up tighter again, but the woman keeps her tone even and placid. “Okay. I understand.” She pauses, perhaps in thought, perhaps horror, before inquiring, “Will you let us give you something to help you calm down a bit so we can treat you?”

Sherlock nods desperately, grits his teeth, and extends a stick-thin arm, appalled by his own need. However, the thought of chemical relief is enough to still him long enough for small, petite hands to hold his arm. The needle slides home through paper thin skin, the sensation painfully familiar from younger days spent languishing in the arms of various illegal mistresses. A cool flush hits his veins, and Sherlock’s nerves sigh with relief. As soon as the syringe is pulled from his flesh, Sherlock jerks away from the light hold.

The room quiets. The only sound in the trauma suite is the sound of his ragged, harsh breaths, echoing against the hard surfaces. In time, even that softens and slows. Sherlock sags against the wall, letting the sedative do its work. It does not render him unconscious. Instead, it blurs the overwhelming stimuli and mutes his own terror. Nothing more. His concerns slip away from him slightly, replaced with a comfortable numbness.

Hands lift Sherlock from the floor and help him back to the gurney so the examination can continue. The fear remains, yes, but it is somehow quieter, lurking in the background recesses of his mind. It is manageable – for now.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

Greg gets the first text while out on lunch and is unable to answer while juggling a scalding hot falafel in one hand and his drink in the other, with his coat tucked in the crook of his arm. One of the fried balls brushes the back of his hand, burning the skin there and drawing a hiss from the man. In his annoyance, Greg decides, against his better judgment, to check his mobile once he is done with his lunch.

Upon returning to the office, Greg finds a copy of lab results from one of his cold cases on his desk and promptly forgets the text in favor of the file. He works through the lab results and begins his own annotation on the side for presenting to DI Donovan later.

Midway through his analysis, his mobile buzzes again. Mildly irritated, Greg digs the thing out of his pocket, expecting a text from John about picking up something from Tesco on the way home or from Mrs. Hudson inviting him over. Instead, he is met with Donovan’s number and several messages that nearly stops his heart.

_Call me. – S.D._

_Emergency – S.D._

_St. Mary’s A &E. Get here now. - SD_

He tries to ring her, but Donovan does not answer. That is not like her. Unable to get through to her, Greg has no choice but to follow the order of his commanding officer and head down to the A&E. He packs his things and gets in his car. St. Mary’s is across town from the Met, and it takes almost a half an hour of fighting traffic to get there. By the time Greg finds a parking spot and strides in, he is beyond bitter and well into the territory of raging.

All that falls to the wayside when he spots Donovan, sitting with her hands clasped in her lap. She looks exhausted and worn, and it is barely one thirty in the afternoon. Her face is paler than Greg has ever seen her, and he knows she has seen some absolutely awful things during her career and her time under his command especially.

“Donovan?” he croaks, almost afraid to ask what has happened.

She looks up with sorrowed eyes and blinks, perhaps to compose herself, perhaps to bite back tears – he cannot tell. “Lestrade. I’m so sorry.”

“What’s going on?”

When she shakes her head, unable to speak just yet, he furrows his brow and glances about wildly. He has been called to the A&E before as detective inspector. A call to the A&E for a DI or other commanding officer generally means one or more officers have been seriously and possibly fatally injured at a crime scene. The entry is bustling, loud, and chaotic, but Greg does not see the usual bevy of worrying and/or grieving officers associated with such an occurrence.

“What happened?”

Sally stands and smooths her button down shirt, putting herself back together. “Come with me.”

He nods, a heavy feeling taking hold of him with each passing step as they walk through the A&E to one of the private trauma suites. Greg swallows. There is a two officer guard posted at the door. It is a bad sign. It means that the person behind the door is the primary suspect of a heinous crime, a convict, or an officer.

Sally pauses at the door and stops Lestrade with the palm of her hand. “I want you to know before someone else tells you, I knew. I just… I didn’t know it was anything like this.”

Greg cannot respond; he still has no idea what is going on. So, he says nothing. He waits as Sally opens the door to the trauma suite for him and steps inside. The suite is far quieter than the hall and entry to the A&E, and the trauma staff speaks in barely audible whispers to one another – a far cry from the usual shouting and barking in a trauma room that Greg has grown accustomed to over the years. They circle about a scrawny mass laid out on the bed at the center of the room.

A lump rises in Greg’s throat, and he swallows it down, taking a tentative step forward. He cannot see the identity of the patient, not yet. He is not certain he wants to see who the doctors and nurses are treating, not considering the unusual circumstances. A moan emanates from the patient before bleeding into a pitiful but wordless begging sound, and Greg’s blood runs cold. He recognizes the voice, no matter how raw and rough it has become. Sherlock.

In the blink of an eye, Greg is at Sherlock’s side, having pushed between the hospital staff. However, when he gets there, Greg’s stomach flip flops at both the sight of Sherlock and at the fact that Sherlock hardly seems aware of his presence. His eyes are unfocused and glazed, but there is more. Greg might not have the visual acumen and memory of Sherlock Holmes, but he knows there is something wrong with those eyes. The edges are rimmed with red, inflamed flesh, and the pupils refuse to function. Sherlock blinks owlishly, but his eyes do not react to the motion about him.

A voice speaks to him from behind, distant and fogged. “I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t be in here.”

“He’s with me,” Donovan pipes up before Greg can even formulate words.

A hushed argument ensues behind him, but Greg does not have ears for it. His world has come crashing down to one singular thread, focused purely on the ruined creature that was once Sherlock Holmes. Greg reaches for a hand to hold to comfort, but he stops dead at the sight of it. Sherlock’s hand is grotesquely misshapen, the pointer and middle fingers distorted to odd angles while the ring and pinkie fingers are missing entirely.

“Please….” Sherlock slurs once more, the word intelligible now that Greg is closer. “Please…. don’t.”

Greg licks his lips and forces himself to speak, to offer something. “Shh… shh… you’re alright, Sherlock.”

Sherlock tenses and flinches away from the sound, but it is a small, weak measure. His movements are sluggish and uncoordinated. It is an unnatural reaction from him.

“What’s wrong with him?” he asks the nearest nurse, a petit red head.

She purses her lips together in sympathy. “I’m sorry, but we couldn’t examine him without mild sedation. He’s just a little out of it right now. It’ll wear off in a few hours.”

A hand graces his shoulder; Donovan. “Come on, Lestrade. Let them work.”

He nods, numbly and staggers from the trauma suite with her. Outside, he nearly collapses into the nearest chair in the waiting area. Donovan sits down beside him. Neither speak for some time. Greg focuses only on breathing; it is all he can do for the time being.

Finally, Donovan begins talking, confessing everything that has happened, everything she has learned during the investigation of the prison. The words start slowly and awkwardly before spilling from her, coming out as a flood all at once. Greg listens and tries, god he tries, not to be pissed at her and to make some sort of sense of it all. She could not have known. She could have never known. Not when she testified against Sherlock. Not when she brought up the investigation. Not when she went into the prison. There was no way Donovan could have ever known that this would be the consequences of her actions. He tries, but it is difficult to keep the anger down.

She apologizes profusely and leaves him, citing work at the office. He knows it is a lie. Although the position of Detective Inspector leaves little time for sympathy or sitting in wait at the hospital, Greg knows that isn’t what has her running with her tail tucked between her legs. Donovan cannot face him properly yet. He does not blame her, but that does not mean he is happy with her.

Greg spends the next half an hour composing himself before ringing John at the clinic. The officer tries to relate over the phone as much as has been explained to him. John listens, equally as confused and stunned as Greg, before promising to be there shortly. He arrives in record time by cab, likely having bribed the driver.

When John arrives, he is a mess. His eyes are bloodshot red and glisten in the light with unshed moisture. His cheeks flush where he has scrubbed away the tears. There is a small patch of dampness along the wrist of his jacket. The doctor has been crying on the way. Greg says nothing; John has also clearly made moves to conceal his tears.

He sits beside Greg, draws a deep breath and heaves, “Has there been any word?”

“No.”

“Alright,” John says in a shaky voice.

Mycroft joins them shortly, but he says nothing. Neither Greg nor John expect any more of him. It would be out of his nature as a Holmes to say anything. He stands across from the two flatmates, holding his umbrella and gazing out as though unmoved. Both Greg and John know this is merely an elaborate façade. Mycroft is just as unsettled by this judging by the set to his jaw and the tightness of his grip on the umbrella handle.

After what seems a lifetime in wait, a doctor comes out to greet them. He inquires if any of them are family, and, when Mycroft nods, the physician refuses to speak anymore of Sherlock’s condition until in private. Blessedly, Mycroft insists they have his permission. Then, the doctor speaks. John feels his hands ball to useless fists as the doctor details the aftermath of what can only be aptly described as long term torture. The emaciation, the obvious joint and muscle damage, the brutal amputations of his digits.

When the doctor comments on scar tissue around Sherlock’s genitals and waiting for test results for sexually transmitted diseases, John nearly loses it. He has seen many crimes in his life between his time in the service, his time with Sherlock, and his work at the clinic, but John cannot stomach the thought of Sherlock raped. It is utterly unbearable.

At least, John thinks that is the unbearable part of all this until the physician mentions Sherlock’s eyes. The trauma team has found signs of limited sight. Sherlock reacts to light, suggesting sight, but his eyes do not focus properly and bear clear signs of chemical burns. They have flushed his eyes with saline again and again, but the burns are too old to truly merit anything but minor benefit from the cleansing. John could almost laugh; just when he thinks it can’t get any worse for Sherlock, it does.

John’s heart breaks for Sherlock; there is no coming back from whatever he has suffered these years while he has been writing his stupid letters.

When the doctor finally finishes, John asks, “Can we see him?”

“I’m sorry. Family and officers only,” the doctor replies.

John gnashes his teeth together and bites back something that will get him expelled from the hospital and possibly land him in jail. Mycroft smooths things over by putting his arm about the doctor and guiding him back to the room. John tries to calm himself, to remind himself that Mycroft has the power necessary to get him through any door.

_‘Mycroft’s name literally opens doors.’_

Sherlock’s words, not his.

“’Officers only,’” John spits.

Greg shakes his head. “Be reasonable, John. He _is_ a convicted criminal by his own admission.”

“Don’t. Just don’t,” John snarls.

Greg knows better than to fight it with John. He waits for Mycroft to return, looking peekish and sobered, before taking his own turn to visit Sherlock. Greg is not above taking advantage of his position, and John is thankful for it. Greg’s visitation serves as a welcome distraction for the staff while Mycroft slips John a copy of Sherlock’s medical file. John reads and blanches visibly with each passing remark and comment from the trauma staff. Malnutrition, dehydration, open and infected sores, orders for bloodwork and various imaging.

John closes the file slowly and looks to Mycroft with an accusing glare. “You knew.”

Mycroft frowns. “I knew he was innocent. I did not know about this.”

“But you knew,” John insists, his voice a low, dangerous hiss. “You knew, and you did nothing.”

Mycroft folds his arms across his chest defensively. “I knew, yes.”

“You could have stopped all this at the trial.”

Mycroft stills, schooling his features. “I had surveillance evidence to prove Sherlock’s whereabouts at the time of the Bruhl kidnapping.”

John feels his muscles trembling with barely restrained rage. “And you did nothing to aid him.”

The elder Holmes smiles indulgently upon John and opens his mouth to speak, but the doctor does not allow him. Instead, John rears back with his arm and slugs the man right in the jaw. His fist connects solidly with Mycroft’s face and knocks the man down. His hand flares with pain, but it is a welcome pain, if only for the dumbfounded look of surprise on Mycroft’s face.

One of the officers guarding the door to the trauma suite reaches for his side arm, but Mycroft waves away his concern. “I’m alright, I’m alright.” He rises and rights himself, before turning his attention to John. “I deserved that. I know. At least allow me a moment to explain myself.”

“Sixty seconds,” John snaps curtly.

Mycroft gives a quick nod. “John, you must understand, I never wanted this for Sherlock, but I know my brother. He would never admit even an honest mistake, let alone lie like he did at the trial. I knew he was concealing something, but I could not venture a guess as to what.”

“So, you let him hang like that?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “John… if the inquiry is correct, then the staff of Sherlock’s prison was all paid off by one man.”

John blanches, suddenly sickened as the fight bleeds out of him. “Moriarty.”

“Yes,” Mycroft breathes solemnly. “I have no idea of his reasons, but Sherlock willfully submitted to this.” John heaves a deep sigh, uncomfortable with this knowledge, but Mycroft only continues. “But I do have my suspicions.”

John shakes his head firmly, silencing the man. John can venture his own guesses and suspicions. He has time and concern for neither, for what does it matter why Sherlock allowed this to happen? Knowing Sherlock’s rationale has never made any difference in the grand scheme of things, nor will it undo the grievous damage to his body. Tomorrow, perhaps, John will care why Sherlock let this happen, but, today, all he wants is to see Sherlock for himself.

Fortunately for him, Greg returns just in time to prevent further discussion of the matter. They sit for time until a nurse comes by to announce that they will not be able to visit Sherlock again that day. John glances at his watch, surprised to see how late it is. She informs them that they can come back tomorrow.

Greg and John return to their flat. John prepares a small meal, but neither eats. They spend the meal in silence, prodding about their plates and pushing the food around. When they retire for the night, neither truly sleeps, and midnight finds the two drowning their uncomfortable emotions and thoughts with a bit of scotch at the table in quiet repose.

What else can they do?

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

While Greg and John are languishing in their muddled emotions, Mycroft Holmes is hard at work. He has much to do and very little time. This will be hard on his brother and so very humiliating, especially when he is coherent enough to understand the implications of his rescue and the severity of his injuries. The only thing Mycroft can do for his brother currently is mitigate any further damage. He works through the night, deploying his staff to interrogate and bribe the investigators, EMTs, doctors, and nurses involved in Sherlock’s rescue and care for their silence. This will be bad, but it will be ever so much worse if Mycroft cannot prevent the media circus that is sure to explode if any of this is leaked to the press.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

The night is long and trying at best for Sherlock, but the doctors keep him fairly well doped to passably endure their many tests and treatments. He feels their many hands manipulating his weak, limp limbs for x-rays, other imaging, resetting his shoulder, immobilizing his lower left arm, inserting an i.v. for fluids and medications. The drugs hold back the abject horror of it well enough for the physicians to tend to him.

The worst of it is when they attempt to groom him. Sherlock has spent so very long caked in his own filth, without even so much as a brush or razor. His hair has grown long and shaggy, matting in tangled, greasy clumps here and there, as has a dark beard. The skin beneath is apparently irritated by the conditions, and patches of weeping sores mark his flesh from being unclean and from pressing against the hard, unyielding floor for such an extended period.

One of the staff gently informs Sherlock that they will have to shave both his face and head, as well as bathe him. Sherlock nods and sucks in a shaky breath to steel his already frayed nerves. They shave him with electric clippers that buzz in a way that inexplicably horrifies and sponge his wounds with care, but, by the end of it, Sherlock is worn out and on the edge of tears once more.

“It’s okay,” a nurse coos gently in his ear as she assists in fitting him with a gown. “We’re going to get your settled in a private room.”

Sherlock gives another nod and a sniffle. It seems only fitting after being so excised from the world that his exile should continue even now in the hospital and after so many years before had avoiding other human interaction. He wonders idly if they should have just left him in the dark to die as his body is carted through several maneuvers to a room before being lifted and placed upon a bed.

He heaves a deep breath until a stray hand reaches beneath his gown to his manhood; then, the terror bubbles up once more and tears a cry from him. “No!”

The hand falls away, and the nurse who speaks is the same one from earlier, from the trauma suite and the bathing. “I’m just going to insert a catheter, Mr. Holmes. It’s nothing, really, and, I promise, I’ll be gentle.”

“Please,” he chokes on the word, uncomfortable and ill fitting to his once great vocabulary, squirming against the mattress. “Please….”

“Mr. Holmes, I really think you’ll be more comfortable with the catheter.” She is being delicate, politely glossing over his hobbled leg while still addressing the matter.

“Please….” it seems the only word Sherlock is capable of at the moment, so he employs it once more.

The nurse takes the hint and softly pats his bony shoulder. “Alright, alright. I’ll talk to your doctor.” She pauses before adding in an obvious bid to convince him otherwise, “You’ll have to use a bed pan, and someone will have to wake you every few hours.”

“Just… please don’t….” Sherlock whimpers once more, the tears slipping down his cheeks again.

“Okay.”

Sherlock holds his breath until his lungs burn as she covers his shame once more with his gown. He does not expect the nurse to comply with his begged request. He had pled on more than one occasion to Moriarty, to Harrison, to any of his clients. None of them ever heeded his pathetic mewls, and, so, Sherlock hardly has cause to think a sweet, innocent nurse like this to pay him any heed. However, to his surprise, the woman pulls what feels like a warm coverlet over him and excuses herself softly.

Sherlock blinks for a moment, dumbfounded. Then, before anyone can change their mind about the first, meager blanket and thin mattress he has seen in however long, the scrawny skeleton of a man balls up two fat wads of blanket in his mangled paws of hands and drags the blanket up. He rolls to his side and curls up on his side, as he did so often in his cell. Sherlock means to savor these small comforts – luxuries to him now – for as along as these people intend to allow, before they rush in once more and rip him from this soft place to stuff him back in another private hell of Moriarty’s choosing,.

Sherlock drowses there for some time before, finally, the lull of the drugs drag him down once more to the dark quiet of a fitful sleep.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

John hardly sleeps that night. He cannot stop thinking about Sherlock, about the various horrors he has suffered according to the medical files. He spends his entire night sitting awake in bed, desperately attempting to form a coherent mental image of what his friend might actually look like after all that yet failing miserably.

John abandons all hope of sleep sometime in the early morning, shortly before dawn. He rises and fixes himself a cup of coffee. Then, he sits at the kitchen table as the coffee steams in front of him, demanding to be savored before surrendering to quiet cooling. John hardly has the heart to eat or drink anything, no matter how tantalizing the smell or tempting the habit. He cannot bring himself to even sip at the coffee when he can only think of the malnutrition and starvation chronicled in Sherlock’s medical files and imagine the worst.

His shoulder throbs dully. A storm front has been moving in for the last few days, irritating the old wound. John rubs at his shoulder idly for a few moments, massaging the joint and sobering as his injuries suddenly seem so very minor compared to the horrors inflicted upon Sherlock.

John aches at the thought, his heart contracting sharply. When he went to war, John had done so willingly, hoping to good with for both his country and his fellow man. John honestly thought he would be able to help people, to save lives on the frontline. He had known the risks, like any other enlisted man. He wonders if Sherlock had gone to prison with the same knowledge, and the mere notion sickens him.

Greg rises early, though not nearly as early as John. He greets his roommate with a half-hearted grunt to the effect of “good morning” before fixing himself a cup of coffee for his travel mug. Greg does not even bother to sit and sip it while mulling over the news, as he generally does. Instead, he trots out of the flat immediately; John knows his flatmate intends to return right to the hospital, to Sherlock. John knows, if he could just see Sherlock, he would as well.

Instead, John waits for a time before readying himself for the day. He needs to go to work, to distract himself from whatever unthinkable has just occurred, at least for a few hours. Then, the physician knows he will need to schedule a meeting with his supervisor to discuss taking a personal leave. He is going to need time for Sherlock.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

To Sherlock’s very great surprise, the night is broken only by intermittent visits from nurses and staff. They are gentle as they wake him, quiet, speaking in soft, soothing tones as they ask if he needs to relieve himself and offer him a bedpan. They announce their presence from the door, making sure to allow Sherlock to rouse at least partially before drawing too close, lest they spook him.

Their care and professionalism, however, do not make the situation any less mortifying, lest of all when Sherlock actually _does_ need to piss. He does not have the strength to do it himself. The staff has to assist him and even hold his cock for him. Sherlock shivers with fright each time a stranger’s hand comes near to his genitals and nearly pisses himself prematurely at the touch – regardless of how clinical. Each time, his cheeks burn and sting from hot tears while his heart drums timidly in his chest. Sherlock knows he wouldn’t be able to stand it at all if it weren’t for the warm smothering of whatever chemicals continue to stream into him through the damnable IV along with the saline that fills his bladder.

However, that is all that the staff does to Sherlock. After each brief visit, the nurse or aid tending to him removes the bedpan and dries any trace of urine from him with a sterile pad. Then, they replace his gown, smoothing it over his scrawny legs before pulling the blankets up over him. That is all they do. Sherlock marvels at this after every instance before the medication and exhaustion from his fear drags him back down.

In what must be the morning judging by the faint light in his eyes, another of the staff rouses Sherlock first to use the bedpan before then informing him that breakfast will be served shortly. Sherlock winces. The guards enjoyed announcing meals with the same, sing-song, chipper tones, only to serve up dishes of what could best be described as slop or nothing.

In time, a cart squeaks towards his room. Sherlock cringes at the sharp, squealing noise of tires in need of oil and basic maintenance followed by the sound of the door opening. He curls deeper under the coverlet, instinctively drawing his arms up protectively about his rib cage. Footsteps broach the room drawing near to his bed, and Sherlock flinches from the sound.

A stranger – a man – pulls something close to the bed and tells him, “Breakfast is served, Mr. Holmes.”

When the sweet, mellow scent of fresh oatmeal hits his nostrils, Sherlock blinks, absolutely gobsmacked. It takes him a long moment to realize that he is meant to respond somehow, to act. He swallows hard, unable to say anything. Instead, he just nods. It is all Sherlock can find in him to do.

The footsteps recede and the door closes behind the stranger. Sherlock listens with keen interest as the noises of the cart fade as well before leaping up. He nearly topples the bed table that the stranger pulled up to him in his excitement. Sherlock quickly recovers and throws himself upon the tray there. In the center, he finds a wide, shallow, plastic bowl. To the left, a cup of tea steams away. To the side, a cool, metal spoon rests on what feels like a napkin. Sherlock smiles deliriously at the thought of clean, fresh food preparedly like this and presented so perfectly for him.

He reaches for the spoon and finds to his very intense dismay that his fingers simply do not work properly for the utensil. In fact, his hand just will not close enough to work the spoon. Sherlock shudders, his heart breaking at the thought. He takes his left hand – the hand missing two fingers – and tries desperately to forcibly clamp his grip down upon the handle of the spoon. Still, it slips from his grasp. The harder he tries, the more the oatmeal cools, and the more impossible it seems to hold the damnable thing until Sherlock feels the tears forming once more in his eyes.

In a fitful moment of frustration, Sherlock flings the spoon aside and nearly sobs at the thought of how incapable he has become that he cannot hold a damned spoon. The thing clatters across the room and skids over cool tile. The sound echoes in Sherlock’s heart and mind as a death knoll of failure.

In his desperation, Sherlock shakes his head and sticks his fingers right into the oatmeal. The porridge is thankfully and blessedly cool enough to not burn, but still warm enough that it has not gone stodgy. He scoops the stuff with mangled, gnarled fingers and licks suspiciously at the stuff. When the once great detective decides that there is nothing suspect to the food, nothing impure or tainted, Sherlock stuffs himself until the bowl is scraped clean and his stomach stretches uncomfortably. Even then, he licks his fingers and lips with strange satisfaction at the taste, the sensation of fullness after so long without.

Then, disaster happens. His stomach revolts against the fullness. His guts flop and roil terribly until he wretches. Sherlock turns to his side just in time to vomit up everything over the edge of the bed. The sick-up splatters and pools on the floor beneath him, but Sherlock could not care less. He has lain with his own filth for so long that this seems almost minute by compare, no matter the long, painful gags that empty his stomach almost entirely. Then, he lies there, sagging with exhaustion and sobbing softly for a few moments at the bitter irony.

After a while, that same stranger that brought his food stops in and chides him, “Mr. Holmes, you should have called someone.”

It is not meant to, but it sounds a threat, so much so that Sherlock balls up tightly once more. He throws his stick thin arms over his head and crushes his eyes shut against whatever punishment will come him. His heartbeat throbs painfully in his ears.

A nurse enters and clucks, “You really shouldn’t have eaten so quickly, Mr. Holmes. It’s not good for anyone, really.” Her voice sounds lower than he, as though she is cleaning his sick-up. “Will you try the tea?”

Sherlock frowns beneath his arms but offers no response. If he does not answer, he cannot be punished for the wrong answer. He has learned that well over the last few years.

“We’ll leave it here, in case you want to try, okay?”

Sherlock just presses his lips firmly together, listening as she leaves and closes the door behind her. Only then, once he is alone once more, can Sherlock breathe. It takes even longer then before his muscles will relax enough for him to uncurl. By the time Sherlock is okay to even try the tea, it is tepid at best. He manages a few sips before the cup tumbles from his grasp to the bed and splashes the tea over him. That little bit is more than enough to rid his mouth of the sour, acrid taste of vomit and soothe the hollowness of his tummy.

Then, Sherlock lies there, wet from the tea and drifting pleasantly in and out of sleep.

xxx

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xxx

Greg has been in his fair share of hospitals for a variety of reasons, and he has never found anything palatable or even mildly tolerable. There is something altogether unpleasant about hospitals. They smell sickly antiseptic and bitter in a way, as though illness lingers in the very air. Designers and architects always seem to select the strangest color palettes of mint greens, pinks, and beiges that make his head spin. The absolute replay of the same bland prints of flowers and cottages makes him feel queerly as though walking through a child’s maze. If asked, Greg could supply any of these reasons as the root of his disliking of hospitals.

However, deep down inside, there is something more pervasive to his distaste. He has never personally been hospitalized for any extended period of time barring having his tonsils out as a child. Yet Greg had been to probably each of London’s hospitals in his life to interrogate suspects, interview witnesses, oversee the documentation and collection of evidence after a violent crime, and to visit fallen comrades. Each visit has been a measure of unspoken sorrow.

Greg dreads this visit perhaps more than others. Yesterday, Sherlock had been in a terrible, absolutely awful state, yet Greg lacks the medical knowledge to have known precisely how bad with just a cursory look. Now, after treatment, the damage will be more evident to his eyes. Sherlock had been dazed and incoherent; today, he will see if there is any coherency to be had in his friend.

Greg sighs to himself as he steps off the elevator onto Sherlock’s floor. He passes many nurses and staff, who each nod to him or greet him politely in turn. Greg knows the staff has been trained and encouraged to be welcoming to friends and family, to be supportive in difficult, trying times. It somehow makes the brief interactions seem unearthly fake and forced.

He flashes his i.d. to the two officers posted at the door to Sherlock’s room. Greg recognizes them vaguely as they survey his documents with cold, bored eyes. They are young, rather green officers. They do not know Sherlock except for what they have heard in the tabloids and gossip columns. They do not know the real Sherlock, and, as such, they do not give this assignment the attention it demands. They think him a criminal too weak to demand a caging, without any enemies. Greg mentally notes that he will have to speak with Donovan about this.

Greg slips into the room surprisingly silently for a man of his age and size, easing the door shut behind himself. He holds his breath and looks across the room to the bed, to the figure balled up on its side there. Sherlock. He looks so small, so tiny, but Greg tries to remind himself that it may very well be an illusion of the lone figure in a room meant for two occupants.

He walks to the bed, but Sherlock does not stir. Greg rounds to the other side and grimaces at the sight of the man. Sherlock is a mess. His face – although serene and tranquil in sleep – is marred by a veritable plethora of scars and bruises. His eyes are sunken and dark, while the bones press painfully tightly against taut skin. The hair has been shorn from his jawline and head, making him appear more like a concentration camp survivor than a convict. His arms are drawn up about his face protectively, even in sleep, and they span impossibly thin, devoid of any fat and much of what had once been lean muscle.

Greg’s gaze drops to survey further, and he spies a puddle of liquid spread across the blankets and gown. He frowns and strides from the room, mindful not to slam the door no matter how he wants to do so. He will not frighten or jar Sherlock unnecessarily after whatever it is he has gone through, but Gregory Lestrade will not stand for this level of ignorance and neglect in _anyone’s_ care.

He makes a beeline right for the nurses’ station and demands to see a supervisor. When that fails to arouse any attention, Greg plays dirty and flashes his badge, pointing out that a patient has been soiled and remained so for an unknown amount of time – likely a health code violation. In no time flat, a gaggle of nurses and orderlies are falling over one another to ready materials for cleaning Sherlock up. They go in while Greg stands outside for the sake of Sherlock’s privacy, listening as a member of the administration and legal department assure Greg that this is not how St. Mary’s treats patients.

Greg does not listen, because he simply does not care. As long as Sherlock is being tended to properly, he could not care less about the many promises and assurances of the administration. He knows that so long as the world sees Sherlock as a convicted criminal and not the genius detective, Greg knows Sherlock will never receive the care he truly deserves.

It’s a damn shame.

xxx

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xxx

Sherlock is abruptly awoken by a sudden commotion in his room. A myriad of people and sounds flood his ears, jarring him from a dreamless slumber to a cacophony of noise and action to which he cannot so simply adjust. He gulps, trying to compose himself but finding it difficult even through the chemical embrace of his many medications.

When the hands begin to undress him, he panics once more, honestly panics. The air flees from his lungs, while liquid hot adrenaline floods his veins. A tight band constricts about his chest, clamping down upon his ribs and squeezing the breath from his body. He flails, but his movements are weak and spastic at best.

Someone grabs his hand, and Sherlock freezes, his blood turning to ice. Harrison’s cold, clammy palm grips his. Another hand presses upon his shoulder, shoving him down and holding him there, flat on his back. It is one of Harrison’s clients, pressing him against the cool floor of his cell to force himself upon Sherlock. A finger caresses his cheek, thumbing away the tears that trickle there; it is Moriarty toying with him.

And, then, there is suddenly the welcome flush of chemical relief from his IV that spreads throughout his body in moments. Sherlock feels his chest loosen ever so slightly, and it is enough to allow air into his burning, oxygen starved lungs. His muscles sag slightly, more than enough for the orderlies and nurses to do their work. As the chemicals continue to drag him down, the staff strips him down, sponge him clean, pat him dry with a downy towel, redress him and change the bed linens about him.

Then, in what is perhaps the most welcome mercy of all, they leave him alone to drift and sleep.

xxx

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xxx

When Greg finally escapes the clutches of the administrative staff and their cowing, the orderlies and nurses have been done tending to Sherlock for some time. One of younger female nurses stops the detective long enough with her smug little smirk to show him the source of the issue – an errant mug – and Greg feels abruptly small and foolish for creating such a scene. He apologizes, bumbling over the words, but the nurse just waves him off and assures him that they understand entirely.

He slips back into the room and finds Sherlock asleep once more. He knows Sherlock needs this, but it does not make the sight of a man once proud and strong so vulnerable, so exposed any easier. Greg spies a chair in the corner and settles in. He will keep watch on Sherlock where the Met has not seen fit to provide the guard necessary. Sherlock can sleep safely and, then, when he’s ready to talk, _if_ he is ever ready, Greg will listen and find whoever it was that did this to his friend – to all of them, really.

xxx

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John’s day at the clinic can only be ascribed as abysmal at best. He had gone in the morning under the gross over-assumption that a bit of work would help to keep his mind from Sherlock, as he knows he cannot yet visit his ailing friend. He thought wrong. Every patient John sees raises fresh doubts and suspicions about Sherlock’s condition both physically and mentally – even patients popping in for silly things like seasonal colds or minor cuts that barely require butterfly sutures.

By lunchtime, John is a miserable wreck after his own paranoid fears have run amuck in his mind for hours. He can hardly focus on his work or his patients. His bedside manners, usually so warm and kind, have faded to nothing but vapid, expressionless monotone. It is so out of character that Dr. Sawyer calls him in to her office just before his scheduled break.

She bids him to sit across from her at her desk. John does, but it is without focus on even the potential ramifications of this visit looming over his head. Instead, he allows his gaze to slip over the many items on her desk without any sense of why. A framed picture of Sarah with her face pressed next to an anonymous female friend, taken at arms length. A plastic trinket of the Statue of Liberty, likely a gift considering John doubts Sarah has ever left the country, let alone crossed the pond.

John’s mind skips a beat to realize that Sherlock has never been to America to his knowledge and now, will _never_ America. It is a somehow sobering thought, despite the fact that Sherlock has never expressed any interest in seeing anything the western hemisphere has to offer.

Finally, Sarah’s words do penetrate the grim thoughts. “John, please, talk to me.”

He blinks and shakes his head, as though he could forcibly loose his worries of Sherlock, shuffle them right out of his mind like an Etch-A-Sketch. “I’m sorry, what?”

“That is exactly what I’m talking about, John,” she breathes in exasperation. “John, tell me what’s going on. This isn’t like you at all.”

His lips flap uselessly for a moment before he settles on a vague answer – a safe response. “I’m sorry. I’ve just got a lot on my mind today, I suppose.”

“I can see that.” She leans forward over her desk, as reaching for him across a vast ocean of stained and scuffed wood littered by paperwork and forms. “What’s going on, John? Problems at home? Family?”

John nearly tells her. It takes every ounce of will within him to snap his mouth shut and seal the truth within. John Watson is not a lying man, but he knows better. He cannot tell her the truth, not now, possibly not ever. He cannot trust himself not to cry, to sob and shout or rail and rage at the thought of what has happened to Sherlock, but John knows better. He knows that now, somewhere out there, Moriarty is still waiting and watching; both Sarah and Sherlock are safer if John says not a word.

It takes force to compose himself, but, in time, John finds the words and courage enough to answer. “I’m sorry, but I really can’t talk about it, not right now. It’s personal.”

“Fair enough,” she replies, leaning back and away from now that she has been so summarily yet politely dismissed. “But I’m concerned it is going to affect your work.”

John nods glumly. “About that. I was going to talk to HR later, but I guess I’d best tell you first. I’m going to need to take a leave of absence for a while.”

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xxx

Something stirs Sherlock from his sleep, dragging him up once more from the depths of his dreamless void. He jerks awake and balls up tighter. Instincts have taught him better through the years that a sudden waking is often swiftly accompanied by an unsavory visit from Moriarty, Harrison, or one of his many clients. He knows innately to cover himself, to protect his cranium and to curl over his soft, vulnerable abdomen – particularly so soon after a meal.

Sherlock finds it queer; he knows someone is there. He can feel them somehow. There is something different to the air, to the feel of the room about them. He does the only thing he can; from his protective little nest, Sherlock listens. When he focuses over the ringing in his ears – tinnitus, a lovely present from a few too many blows to the head – Sherlock can even hear whoever it is by the hushed wheeze of their respiration.

When the newcomer does not move, Sherlock unfolds slightly, curiously. He has not been in the presence of any so still in a great time. It confounds him, makes him wonder what purpose the stranger has in mind. His own mind supplies a bounty of nasty possibilities, all ending with him being dragged from this cuddled and coddled nest back to his dank, miserable cell in the ground.

More time passes, and, still, the stranger does not move or make a single sound. Sherlock forces himself to listen, to follow the gentle in and out of the air the person breathes. In another life, Sherlock might have been able to tell anything and everything about the person without having seen them purely by the sound of their breathing. The age, the gender, the general physical condition, and more. Yet, now, Sherlock can barely bring himself to dare listen too long, and the information he gleans from the auditory input is limited at best. All Sherlock can tell is that the individual is sleeping based on the length and depth of each inhalation.

The thought comforts Sherlock oddly, and he finds himself smiling faintly. Whoever it is, if he or she is sleeping, then the person is comfortable enough about Sherlock to allow themselves to be so vulnerable. Granted, Sherlock knows he could never fight a person in this condition, but it eases him enough to relax.

Sherlock breathes deeply and starts when he catches the smell. He furrows his brow, studying the scent. He _knows_ that smell. He _recognizes_ that smell. Through it all, the curious mixture of a peculiarly woody aftershave, shoe polish, and bargain brand soap has never left him. Recognition cascades over Sherlock, leaving him shaken and at the edge of another crying jag; it is the exact smell of one Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.

Lestrade is alive; his suffering has been sufficient to spare at least one of the three people in the world who matter the most to him. When Sherlock realizes that, the tears fall once more. This time, he does not care how pathetic he seems. He struggles to form the name with quivering lips, but they fail him again and again.

Finally, he manages to blurt the name. “Lestrade….”

It is almost a shade louder than a whisper, his voice rough. The name sounds alien to his ears, as does his own speech. Sherlock wonders if it is from abuse, disuse, or just the thick, cumbersome emotions rattling about through his heart and mind.

However, it is enough to stir the man, and the detective whispers in reply, “Sherlock?”

Sherlock tries to speak once more, but he simply cannot get the words out. His mind has played tricks on him in the past, when his dreams of Lestrade, John, Mrs. Hudson, the safety of Baker St., and even his brother came too vividly to dismiss. His throat and mouth just refuse to work. Instead, he reaches weakly, clawing with his mangled paws. Lestrade must understand, for Sherlock hears motion from across the room. The man crosses the room, drawing close. Sherlock swings his hands through the air, blindly swatting about in his desperation.

His hands find a firm but yielding surface. His fingers smooth over it. The nerve reception in Sherlock’s hands is dull from the damage wrought through the years, yet there is enough for him to realize he is touching a shirt – especially when his fingers catch at small, hard, cool things that can only be buttons. This Lestrade is real, concrete.

“Oh, Sherlock….”

Sherlock claws at the shirt, grabbing at it and pulling himself up. He needs this, as much as he needs air to breathe. Lestrade seems to understand. As Sherlock tries to drag himself up by Lestrade’s shirt, the detective eases closer, perching upon the edge of the bed and embracing Sherlock. The younger man buries his head in Lestrade’s stomach. In a previous life, Sherlock would have offered a snippy remark at the tiny bit of extra padding there, but that Sherlock Holmes would have never been caught dead clinging to another human being as though for dear life.

It is painful and unearthly humiliating, but, for once, Sherlock really and truly does not care.

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Greg is surprised and taken aback when Sherlock pulls him into perhaps _the_ strangest embrace of his life, but he allows it and yields into it, even putting his own arms around the younger man. Sherlock feels so appallingly small and frail in Greg’s hold that the detective worries he might hurt Sherlock by just holding him. Yet Sherlock’s misshapen hands continue to claw and scrabble furiously at him, keeping him close and refusing to let go, even as the younger man sobs.

“Shh….. it’s okay, Sherlock. You’re okay.” He bites his lip and corrects himself, gingerly touching Sherlock’s bony, knobby back. “You’re going to be okay.”

The lie tastes sour and oily upon his tongue. Greg may not be a doctor like John, but he knows that Sherlock will never be ‘okay’ ever again. He knows better than to say such things, but he cannot help it. Sherlock likely knows this better than Greg, but he does not seem to notice. Greg continues to offer these empty ablutions as he rubs Sherlock’s bony back, trying to ignore the bumps and lines of palpable scar tissue beneath the thin gown.

The vignette is somehow impossibly familiar. Greg has only ever seen Sherlock cry once before this, years ago. At the time, Sherlock’s world – his entire universe – had revolved about the dark axis of his various chemical mistresses, strung about on the fickle demands of addiction. Greg had seen the genius in Sherlock, obscured by narcotics and diluted by his intractable manners. He had issued an ultimatum; kick the drugs or kiss the investigations good-bye. Greg had stayed at Sherlock’s side through the detox, holding him and whispering the same meaningless platitudes in the younger man’s ear when the worst of the detox struck replete with physical illness and heartrending sobs. Greg is not sure Sherlock had even been coherent enough to remember the events of that sickening weakness; they had never spoken of the matter by unspoken pact. Greg has tried very hard not to think of those awful hours or the utter vulnerability to the great, unassailable Sherlock Holmes.

Time passes this way, long enough for Greg to feel bored and, then, ashamed for feeling so. Eventually, Sherlock settles, his tears stemming to nothing, his sobs softening to quiet sniffles. Still, the younger man clings to him, and Greg has not the heart to pry himself free, not yet.

Eventually, Sherlock speaks again. “Lestrade…

It sounds so odd to him. No one outside of the force has called him by his surname, and, even then, it was without emotion. He has been ‘Greg’ all this time since Sherlock’s conviction.

“Still here,” he replies; it seems the safest answer.

Sherlock shudders in his embrace. “You’re…. ok?”

Greg starts. The question would be a simple one from anyone else, but, from Sherlock and with that pause, the inquiry seems fraught with unspoken emotion. It is additionally strange to be asked that considering the sad state of affairs that is Sherlock’s condition in compare to his own rather healthy and whole body. Greg nods, an automatic response, before he recalls Sherlock’s ruined eyes.

“Yeah…. I’m fine.”

“Really?” Sherlock sudden sounds so small and childlike that it hurts Greg.

“I swear,” Greg promises, eliciting a sob from the man.

Sherlock snuffles once more. “John?”

A shiver snakes down his spine, and Greg swallows. “John’s fine, too.”

Sherlock nearly sobs again, biting it back to ask in a cracked voice, “And Mrs. Hudson?”

“Of course, Mrs. Hudson, too,” Greg insists, squeezing his friend a bit tighter, but not too much to harm or frighten him. “She’s just fine, I promise.”

“England would fall…..”

Sherlock lets out another sob, this time of relief. He cries once more in Greg’s lap. The detective’s heart breaks for him, but, fortunately for him, this crying jag is much shorter than the first. It is a dubious mercy for Greg, for, in the end, Sherlock exhausts himself. He stills once more, occasionally reflexively clutching at Greg’s now thoroughly wrinkled and sodden button down shirt. All Greg can do is sit there and stroke Sherlock’s back as the man settles.

After a time, one of the members of the hospital staff informs Greg that it is time for Sherlock’s lunch, politely hinting that it might be time for Greg to leave Sherlock to rest. Greg understands. Sherlock does need his rest and nutrition if he is going to leave the hospital.

However, when the detective attempts to extract himself from Sherlock’s hold, the smaller man resists, clinging to him. Greg’s heart quakes for the younger man; Sherlock would never dare hint at such weakness before. He does not know how to remove himself from this position while still salving Sherlock’s pride, providing anything remains of it now.

“Sherlock,” Greg whispers in his ear. “Sherlock, I’ve got to go. You’ve got to eat something and get some sleep.”

The smaller man flinches but refuses to give. A part of Greg warms at this minute defiance. It is a sign that somewhere in this frightened, quivering shell lies a semblance of the man who had once been so confident, so hale and hearty, so proud and brash.

Still, Greg winces at the thought of the alien neediness and vulnerability to him, but he presses gently. “I’ll be back later. I promise.”

Sherlock nods in his lap and allows Greg to slip out from beneath him. Sherlock whimpers strangely, swallowing back the sound as much as possible but unable to conceal it completely. Greg flushes but does not mention it; instead, he pats Sherlock on the shoulder as lightly as possibly.

Before he goes, Greg leans close to Sherlock’s ear and breathes, “Promise.”

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It takes some time to convince both Sarah and the HR that John Watson not only needs but deserves a leave of absence. He knows they are arguing for what they feel is his best interest, prying and prodding in an attempt to discern what his real reason for requesting the leave. John persists in his secrecy, if only to protect Sherlock from their well intentioned gossip. Eventually, both agree, and they offer their well wishes and any assistance should he need it. Both ensure that John has their mobile numbers, should the need arise, but the doctor doubts he will turn to them at all. The rest of the work day is spent saying his farewells at the clinic and assuring members of the staff that his leave has nothing to do with any of them, or any unsavory criminal element that may or may not have haunted his life several years ago.

After that, John returns to St. Mary’s with renewed vigor and lifted hopes at the thought of seeing Sherlock. The doctors continue to refuse. John presses, pointing out that he is Sherlock’s personal physician and medical proxy. Sherlock, ever the logical one, had documents drawn up to establish John as such shortly after the incidents of the Study in Pink. However, to his surprise, the physicians at St. Mary’s and the law enforcement stationed there produce documents verifying in Sherlock’s own hand that John Watson is no longer his medical proxy. The papers are dated before Sherlock’s incarceration.

“But this is…..” He pauses, suspicious of such a sudden change in Sherlock’s behavior. He surveys the signature closely and, eventually, concludes to best of his knowledge that the signature is the same as he recalls. “All in order, I suppose.”

John smiles his best and rings Mycroft, but the elder Holmes is unreachable at the moment. He leaves, dissatisfied with the results of his day but resolved in his efforts. He will ring Mycroft and continue ringing Mycroft until the damnable man has the decency to answer him.

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What John Watson will never understand about the world is how many doors are so easily opened with the right key without any of the fuss or muss he has put up. In the case of the guard and lock that keep Sherlock Holmes safe from the world, the key is an all too simple one, one which Irene Adler knows well. She waits for the dark of night and the stillness of the early morning hours before slipping ever so simply through St. Mary’s guard by way of token.

She slips into Sherlock’s room to find the poor, pathetic wretch in his bed, sound asleep. He is a terrible sight. The world and the horrible creatures in it have been so very unkind to her pet. They have left him scarred and broken in a way in which Irene knows Sherlock would not wish her to see him. He is too proud, and she is still too enamored with him to deny Sherlock this small mercy.

Irene Adler plants a chaste kiss upon his cheek, careful not to disturb the fragile little bird in his nest of blankets and bandages before leaving him. It is the only good-bye she can offer while still salving his pride.

It is for the best, really, even if it does hurt more than anything.

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The next morning, after Greg has left for the hospital once more, John phones Mycroft. He leaves no room for misunderstanding; Mycroft _will_ see him today. The elder Holmes promptly sends a car around, and, much to his wonderment, John is taken right to Mycroft’s office and nowhere else.

Mycroft is quite a sight to behold. He sits behind a pile of papers and files, surveying each carefully. He looks ashen and tired, with thick, dark bags beneath each of his eyes. His clothes appear rumpled and untidy for the first and perhaps only time John has known him. Strangely, John wonders if Mycroft has slept in his office, or if the man has slept at all. Sherlock spent many a case in a near manic frenzy, unable to sleep until cracking the case; it would not surprise John at all if Mycroft holds the same conviction.

When Mycroft fails to address him, John rather forcefully clears his throat; Mycroft blinks and composes himself. “Terribly sorry. Good morning, John.” He rises and gestures formally to the chair across from him. “Please.”

They speak idly for a few moments, chatting awkwardly over the reports from the hospital, updates on Sherlock’s rather appalling condition. It feels a sin – to speak of the man when John has not even seen him yet – but it is the only contact John has to Sherlock.

Finally, John asks the question that burns at his mind. “So…. now what? What happens to Sherlock?”

Mycroft’s brow quirks briefly, as though he, too, is uncertain of what is to become of his wayward, younger brother. “For now, nothing. His doctors assure me that his condition is too .”

“After that,” John presses. “He’s not going to be in there forever.”

Mycroft shakes his head. “I am aware.” The elder Holmes sighs deeply. “I have serious concerns for my brother’s privacy. The longer he remains in the hospital, the more likely it is someone will leak that information to the press. I have made inquiries for a private hearing to have his ruling overturned, but there is only so much I can do to keep matters quiet.”

John chuckles sarcastically. “Oh, yes, because what matters most now is the public image of the Holmes brothers.”

Mycroft says nothing initially. Instead, he levels a stern gaze upon John, barely moving a muscle. It is the same intense, cold stare of a mountain cat with prey in its gaze. John feels the power behind it, the ferocity, squirming uncomfortably beneath it like a small child caught being naughty by his mother.

“Public image is not my concern,” Mycroft growls menacingly. “My concern is for my brother’s _security_ and what little dignity he has left.” John has never seen nor heard the Holmes sound so angry, so absolutely bitter. “My brother has endured hell. I will not have him hounded by reporters or gawkers, lest of all to advertise his whereabouts and condition to the people who did this to him.”

John blinks, dumbfounded, and, then, nods approvingly. “So, what do we do?”

“We?” Mycroft questions.

John shakes his head. “When will you two idiots learn that you don’t have to go at it all alone?”

Mycroft softens slightly, and he shakes his head. “Perhaps never.”

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xxxxx

xxx

Sherlock sleeps through Greg’s visit that day and the next. He curls up on his side, occasionally balling up tighter. His hands twitch every so often, the movement accompanied by a faint moan or whimper. It reminds Greg of a puppy, chasing imaginary squirrels in dreams. However, Greg knows that it is not Sherlock doing the chasing. When one of the nurses announce that visiting hours have come to a close, Greg cannot bring himself to wake Sherlock.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

It takes three weeks and no uncertain degree of maneuvering to arrange for a private hearing. John’s head spins at the mechanizations to Mycroft’s world. A palm greased here. A secret whispered into the right ear there. A fair bit of blackmail tossed about. John tries to make sense of it all, but, in the end, he has no clue how it all really unfolds. In the end, John ends up at Mycroft’s side dwarfed by both the stern, elder Holmes and the nearly ludicrous, monstrous wood furniture.

The magistrate across the desk is an old, tried and pinched seeming fellow. The pale skin sags about his face, hanging as wrinkled drapes. He looks sour, his expression drawn and almost irritated – seemingly the one man beyond Mycroft’s sway. John resists the urge to recommend that the man have an unusual mole on his jawline examined.

The magistrate muses on the documents Mycroft has provided, the evidence to Sherlock’s defense. He strokes at the suspect mole, murmuring something that does not sound favorable. John tries not to think too much into it.

Mycroft makes a small sound, something akin to clearing his throat. “As you can see my brother –“

“Has made a mockery of the British judicial system at every turn,” the magistrate interjects sourly.

John glances to Mycroft, but the elder Holmes holds his tongue. It is perhaps the only time John has known Mycroft to be silent in his life. He even keeps his mouth shut as the magistrate clucks his teeth at the file disapprovingly of the evidence and the subjects.

When the old man finally speaks again, it is in a dour tone. “You understand that despite the evidence presented I cannot grant an overturning of this conviction without trial.”

“Naturally,” Mycroft purrs.

“Then, we shall schedule the appeal as soon as your brother is capable of standing witness.”

Mycroft nods politely, but John presses. “And Sherlock?”

The magistrate raises a brow at the sudden interruption. “Shall remain in custody.” He levels a stern glare upon John. “I don’t care for a man with the mental faculties of Sherlock Holmes to flee.”

John swallows, but Mycroft clears his throat and answers, “Of course, your Honor.”

John tries not to be offended for Sherlock, really he tries. Yet he knows he must be patient. Mycroft has told him this time and time again. It is a small step in the right direction, and John must savor that for all it is worth.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

That night, John can hardly contain himself, blurting out everything that transpired in the magistrate’s office to Greg. Greg listens intently and gratefully for every inch of Mycroft’s calculations. He tries not to get his own hopes up as much as John has, but it is very difficult to keep from doing so.

When John inquires about Sherlock, Greg has hardly the heart to tell him that little has changed.

Conversation dwindles after that.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

Three days later, Greg awakes early to begin his morning as any other to a strange clamor outside his window. It sounds like the bustling of dozens of people, occasionally punctuated by feverish honking. He assumes it is nothing more than a traffic collision or the other everyday goings on of London traffic. He tries to banish the thought from his mind as he showers, dresses, and puts coffee on. Yet, the sounds do not die off as he might expect.

Just as Greg is about to peer out the window, John appears in the living room in his pajamas, a scowl plastered upon his face. “What is that racket?”

“Not sure, I was just going to take a look.”

Greg pulls back the curtain a bit and immediately drops it. However, it is too late. The first bursts of flash have gone off. He cringes and looks to John.

“What is it?” John asks, almost hesitantly. Greg does not answer, not in time to keep John from pulling back the drape and spying the throng of reporters, photographers, and paparazzi bustling and buzzing outside, all asking the same question. “Bloody hell.”

xxx

xxxxxx

xxx

“I want to know, Mycroft Holmes, who did it?” John growls bitterly on his mobile. “Who leaked it to the press?”

Mycroft, ever the diplomat, speaks calmly and coolly. “There is no way to be certain at this moment. It could have been anyone. Hospital staff. The magistrate’s office. The Met. Until further inquiries are made, we cannot be sure, but I promise you they will get their just rewards.”

John sighs while Greg continues to survey the scene on the street below. “What do we know?”

“It is certain that sometime in the last 24 hours, an unknown source alerted the associated press that Sherlock had been hospitalized in serious condition following the prison raid. That much we know for certain. Beyond that, there has been gross speculation.”

John frowns, his brow knitting in his temper. “And what are we going to do about it?”

“I’ve restated Sherlock’s case to the magistrate.”

John feels his impatience rising, a volcano about to blow. “And?”

“Between this fiasco and Sherlock’s condition, the magistrate has reconsidered his position on bail. I’ve already posted it for him,” Mycroft explains smoothly, confidently. “An exorbitant sum to be certain, but a payable one.”

“And, after?”

John can practically hear Mycroft preening on the other end. “I was hoping you would have something to do with it….”

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

A black car arrives at the flat no more than an hour later, ready to swoop in and scoop up John and Greg – Mycroft’s capable hand, of course. The sedan rolls up, and out falls a gaggle of well-dressed goons in tailored suits, like something from a comedy routine. The men swiftly form a wall between them, a corridor from the car to the front door of the flat. It is a narrow walk, but wide enough for Greg and John to pass without physical harassment

The barrage of questions and flash bulbs is unavoidable even with Mycroft’s care. The reporters fling their questions without care, without regard or remorse. They hurl their mobiles and recorders forward, lunging in the crowd. Mycoft’s hired muscle keeps them at bay, but their questions come at will.

“Detective Lestrade, what can you tell us about Sherlock Holmes?”

“What sort of condition is he in, Dr. Watson?”

“What happened?"

“Is Sherlock Holmes innocent after all these years?”

Greg weathers the storm better than John. The five or six foot walk is nothing short of misery for the physician. His head swims at the questions, yet Greg walks with the cold, stiff, practiced glare he perfected as detective inspector. Greg eases into the sedan, while John practically collapses into the thing.

To his surprise, Anthea awaits. John knows he should not be shocked. The prim woman has always been Mycroft’s right hand. He just has not seen her in years, not since before Sherlock’s trial. She looks hardly changed, still tapping away at her mobile without interest in her fellow passengers.

The sedan rockets off. A few intrepid paparazzi try to give chance on motorcycles. Mycroft’s driver is better than them. He shakes them easily.

John half expects another horde of reporters at the hospital, but they never see any. Mycroft’s driver brings the vehicle into the rear of the hospital, into a service and delivery entrance. It is blessedly quiet and vacant there, without the cries of reporters or prying eyes of pedestrians. John thanks his lucky stars for Mycroft’s skills as Anthea ushers the two up to Sherlock’s floor via a service elevator amid carts of breakfast trays

John’s heart beats faster and faster in his chest with every floor until they reach Sherlock’s. He has not seen Sherlock Holmes since the trial. He has not yet seen the sad state of affairs chronicled by both Sherlock’s charts and Greg’s tales. The physician knows to ready himself for the worst.

He does not expect the wasted, withered, slumbering form that awaits in Sherlock’s private room, guarded by two officers. John has to keep from gasping or swearing aloud. It takes actual effort to keep from making a sound, but John does not wish to startle Sherlock.

John flops into a chair beside the bed in shock as Greg speaks with the officers outside. He sits there, staring in shock for a time, until Sherlock begins to stir on his own. Then, he leans closer, holding his breath and waiting for Sherlock to surface fully.

When he does, Sherlock blinks his unseeing eyes owlishly and whispers, “John?”

The physician lets out a sigh of relief and smiles. “Yeah. It’s me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes flutter strangely, growing glossy and misted. “John….”

“Yes, Sherlock?” John whispers, uncertain what to say.

Sherlock rolls over, balling up on himself, crushing his eyes shut, and shaking his head. He jerks slight, small, convulsive motions that concern John. John reaches out and touches Sherlock’s shoulder hesitantly but pulls his hand back as thought scalded when Sherlock twitches violently beneath the touch, murmuring something under his breath.

“Sherlock, shhh, it’s okay, Sherlock,” John breathes, uncertain what else to say.

Sherlock continues to mutter to himself, too low for John to hear until he draws much, much closer. “I’m sorry, John. I’m so sorry.”

John’s heart melts at the sound, as tears well up in his own eyes. Sherlock Holmes has never in John Watson’s existence apologized for anything. Nor has Sherlock ever cried – except perhaps when a case warranted fake tears. This is real, and it is brutally painful.

John shushes him gently and reaches out, pulling Sherlock into a light embrace. “Shh, shh, shhhhhhh. Nothing to be sorry for.”

Sherlock shakes his head violently against John’s chest. “No. You don’t understand. Never understand…”

John frowns, his brow gathering in what he knows is a face he has not made since Sherlock’s incarceration. It is ‘that face,’ as the consulting detective used to call it. He knows it is an expression of both confusion and mild exasperation, always directed at Sherlock and no other.

“Then explain it to me.”

Sherlock stills in his arms, blinks, and looks up at John. It is so very strange. Both Greg’s descriptions and the medical charts provided by Mycroft have given John some warning, but it is no preparation for actually _seeing_ those sightless eyes. Sherlock’s eyes had been so striking, so sharp and studious. Now they are vacant and still, rimming in red.

“It’s my fault,” Sherlock whispers, his voice cracking.

“What’s your fault?” John presses softly.

Sherlock’s lip trembles once more, and, then, the words tumble out in a terrible, rushing admission. “Your accident. It’s my fault. I tried….” Sherlock trails off, unable to blurt out those horrible words, sniffling before going on, “I couldn’t pick. He did. Your accident….”

The puzzle might not be clear, but enough of the pieces come together for John to form a crude understanding. Whatever it was that Sherlock couldn’t do – whether physically or emotionally – Moriarty obviously used John to punish him. Anger bubbles up in John at the thought of that man orchestrating the hit-and-run, or using John’s pain to worsen Sherlock’s suffering. Then, John tamps that down. There will be a time and a place for angry words, but not here, not now.

“Shh, shh,” John croons, rubbing Sherlock’s arm in a spot that seems mercifully without bandages or bruises. “It’s okay. I’m okay, now.” As Sherlock continues to shake in his arms, John decides that it is more than time to change the subject. “Besides, I have good news for you.”

“What?”

John smiles, beaming from ear to ear. “You’re leaving today.”

To John’s horror, Sherlock’s eyes go wide. He blanches visibly, his muted color fading even more. He gasps for air in his panic. The sickly man begins to mutter, and though John cannot hear the words, he begins to get the rough idea of where Sherlock’s overactive mind has gone.

John shakes his head, despite knowing full well that Sherlock cannot see. “No, no, you’re not going back to prison.” Sherlock stiffens in his arms at the word, but the doctor goes on smoothly, “You’re coming home with me. Well, with Greg and me.” Sherlock gapes, but John continues, comforted by the simple, tidy facts of the matter, “Mycroft’s gotten you a second trial, when you’re better. You’ll be out on bail until then, if you can behave.”

It is meant to be a joke, a pathetic one at that, but Sherlock’s face twists and contorts at the thought. He shake his head again and again once more. John tries to comfort him, to explain better, but Sherlock seems to have shut down entirely, closing him out. John can do nothing more than hug him lightly and wait for Sherlock’s doctors to come with discharge orders, instructions, prescriptions.

When they do come, John finds himself waiting through a worrying lecture from Sherlock’s physicians. They are not pleased that Sherlock is being released in this manner. John does not blame them; were the positions reversed, he would be equally irritated with the seemingly idiotic idea to discharge a patient in such clear need of intensive care. They all stress the many hazards in this plan, but John knows that Sherlock is just not safe at the hospital anymore, not now that the news has broken.

After what seems an eternity of lectures, it is time to leave. First, an ankle monitor is fixed to Sherlock’s leg. Then, when it becomes obvious that the panic is too much, too overwhelming, a sedative is administered, rending him pliant and quiet. Sherlock is placed onto a gurney and brought down to a waiting, private and utterly nondescript ambulance tucked away by a back entrance. The staff is careful as can be, but both John and Greg hold their breath with every movement of the sickly, injured man. When he is secured, John and Greg climb in with him for the ride, John taking Sherlock’s hand even though the once consulting detective seems unaware of the contact.

Sherlock is finally coming home after all this time, but, to what, John cannot be certain. What life is there to be for Sherlock now? There can be no career for the man, no work, no science, not with his ruined body. John chews his lip and tries desperately to resolve to shutter that away for another day, but it is hard to think otherwise during the long, quite ride from the hospital, especially when spent staring at what John hopes is a peacefully slumbering Sherlock.

After a time, Greg nudges John’s foot, silently drawing his attention. John starts in surprise but quickly and quietly regroups to keep from startling Sherlock if possible. Greg nods down at his hand, at his own mobile there and the note open for John to read.

_Not going to the flat._

John furrows his brow and looks up to the sliver of windshield visible to his side. He almost gasps but rapidly schools himself once more. There are not returning to the flat that John and Greg have shared all this time. Instead, the ambulance is weaving its way through familiar avenues, past quaint little shops and cafes that John recalls from another life before turning down Baker St. To both John’s and Greg’s mounting confusion and concern, the ambulance rolls to a gentle halt in front of 221.

While John and Greg stare dumbfounded at one another, the driver and partner climb from the front, walk about the vehicle to the back, and open the doors to reveal none other than Mycroft Holmes. The elder Holmes stands by his lonesome, leaning almost heavily upon his black umbrella. Before Mycroft looks up to greet them, he appears for but the briefest of moments so much older, cowed by the weight of the world and weathered by the years in a way that neither Greg nor John had noticed previously. However, in a heartbeat, that all vanishes beneath the customary schooled smirk that both the officer and the doctor have grown so accustomed to seeing.

“Gentlemen,” Mycroft greets smoothly.

Greg and John stumble in shock and surprise from the ambulance to a sidewalk that is utterly placid compared to the chaos they both know await them at their shared flat. John glances up at the smooth, white façade of the building, while something uncomfortable pulls at his heart.

Without even looking at him, John growls softly, “Mycroft Holmes, what are you up to now?”

Initially, Mycroft ignores him, gesturing to the private EMTs, “If you would, please?” While the two strangers begin to remove the seemingly unconscious or dazed Sherlock from the ambulance, Mycroft draws a breath and coolly explains, “Your flat is vastly undersized and is currently under the scrutiny of every journalistic outlet in the United Kingdom as well as several abroad outlets and nearly every paparazzi in the greater London area. It would be unwise for me to suggest Sherlock recover there.”

John shakes his head in disbelief but follows anyway while the men bring Sherlock inside, gently lift him from the gurney and begin to carrying him up the steps. The two strangers are surprisingly strong but tender in their handling of their charge. Sherlock hardly stirs as John just stares.

Greg, however, seems to have the presence of mind to pipe up, commenting, “Mrs. Hudson re-rented this place ages ago.”

“Yes,” Mycroft breathes almost reverently as they drift up the stairs in the wake of the EMTs. “Me.”

John blinks, his reverie shattered; Mrs. Hudson never told them that. “Wait, what?”

Mycroft pauses upon the steps and turns only to matter-of-factly reply, “I currently hold the lease to 221B Baker St.”

Greg furrows his brow and manages to muster but one word. “Why?”

Mycroft shrugs, a measured gesture. “I supposed the Holmes family owed Mrs. Hudson a debt of gratitude for so graciously and gracefully handling my brother and his many eccentricities for so very long. The only way I could reasonably reconcile this debt was to continue to rent the flat until Mrs. Hudson could find suitable lodgers.”

He smiles, a tiny and barely visible smirk, and John knows that it is a lie. John says nothing. The doctor knows now that Mycroft rented the Baker St. flat because he cannot imagine or possibly cannot stomach anyone but his brother occupying that particular flat. Perhaps he had even dared hope that Sherlock might one day return to reclaim his place in these lodgings. John need not be a master spy or detective to know this, because he has somewhat hoped the same thing, that Sherlock would right his own conviction and come storming back into his life has thought his incarceration had changed nothing.

John considers the possibility for a long moment. Sherlock’s condition is still hovering in such uncertain territory that the doctor has not spared a moment to truly contemplate a future for Sherlock beyond getting him out of the hospital. His ankles and feet are misshapen and uneven from fractures left to knit and mend out of proper alignment, likely incapable of bearing his full weight without assistance. Barring that, Sherlock has not had an MRI on his leg to determine if the scars on the back of his leg herald the muscle damage that John strongly suspects based on the depth and severity of the scars as documented in Sherlock’s files. His hands and fingers are equally mangled, too much so to hold any hope of closing properly about a cane. No, for as much as John is loathe to admit it, even with reconstruction and intense physical therapy on both his feet and hands, Sherlock Holmes is unlikely to walk ever again.

“No. This isn’t going to work,” John breathes glumly, shaking his head and rubbing his forehead. “The steps.”

“And what about them?” Mycroft inquires smoothly.

John sighs heavily. “He’s going to be in a wheelchair, Mycroft. Probably for the rest of his life.” He gives another terse shake of his head. “The steps are just too narrow for any kind of a lift.”

The older man presses his palms together in a sort of prayer position, suddenly looking so much more like his younger brother. “John, I need you to rethink everything you have just told me. Considering the extensive damage to my brother, do you truly think he is going to be traipsing in and out of the flat at all hours of the day? Do you honestly think he will be running up and down those stairs?”

John flushes visibly at his own stupidity. “No. I suppose not.” He closes his eyes and draws a deep breath. “But what about doctors and therapists? They’re not really going to come down here to Baker St. Not without a ridiculous home-visit surcharge, and he’s going to need them. I don’t specialize in the kind of aggressive OT and PT Sherlock is going to need.”

“Which will be paid in full in advance,” Mycroft finishes for John. He leans close, and, for the first time in many weeks or perhaps years, John feels the full weight of the power behind the elder Holmes as though a physical pressure upon him. “John, Sherlock needs to be here. Baker St. is the only residence my brother has _ever_ deigned to call home. I intend to do everything in my power to ensure that this works for him.”

John blinks, absolutely dumbfounded by the sheer humanity pouring from Mycroft Holmes; then, he composes himself once more and nods. “Ok.”

The two EMTs emerge from the back bedroom, alone; one of them looks expectantly to Mycroft and announces, “He’s all settled for now; sleeping.”

“Thank you. That will be all for now,” the elder Holmes dismisses the two strangers before returning his attention to Greg and John. Mycroft honestly beams from the heart. “Good, then. Sherlock’s evening nurse will arrive in a few hours. I’ll leave you to get settled in until then.”

Greg finally pipes up from the window. “What about John and me?”

“What do you mean?”

The officer blinks and gestures about. “You’ve done everything to make this ready for Sherlock, but John and I’ve still got to get back to the other flat, pick up a few things.” When Mycroft does not react, Greg prompts him further by pointing out, “Someone is bound to notice us returning and leaving again.”

Mycroft tilts his head to the side and folds his arms primly across his chest. “Gregory Lestrade, in all the time you have known my brother and I, have you ever known either of us to be neglect such detail?” When Greg merely purses his lips at the chastising, Mycroft goes on, “Everything is taken care of. Anthea has already provided a selection of clothing, toiletries, and groceries, and you’ll find all of Sherlock’s prescriptions in the kitchen, as well.”

John gives a brief nod. “Looks like you’ve thought of everything.”

It is so utterly, perfectly practical; Mycroft has attended to every detail and accounted for every need. And, yet, John knows Mycroft could not have planned for the largest question of all; what will become of Sherlock? What sort of future is there for him? John tries not to think about the future; it is too difficult.

John resolves to take matters day by day before realizing that Sherlock must have thought the same thing at one point.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have always loved DIY Sheep's "The Contract" for House, and wanted to make a Sherlockian remix of that terrible agreement.


End file.
